


Watch Your Step

by Faranae



Series: Watch Your Step [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Amnesia, Captivity, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, M/M, Missions, Multi, Polyamory, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-08-09 19:16:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 69,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7813876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faranae/pseuds/Faranae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have no reason to believe that your day-to-day life is all inside your head, and you are blissfully unaware of the machinery controlling your simulated world. A complete lifetime generated and implanted in a mere few months. To what end, nobody knows. Yet. </p><p>When you are pulled shaking and confused from an isolation tank in a Talon research facility by mercenaries affiliated with the still-unsanctioned Overwatch organization, the world you thought you knew is quite literally shattered. While thankful, you must come to terms with your new reality: Overwatch is hardly a game. It is dangerously real, and you are one of its agents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome! I'd like to open with a small note: I do not have a beta for this fiction, so it may be a bit rough around the edges. Regardless, it is a labor of love and I truly hope you all enjoy it. All tags will be updated as chapters are released, excluding the relationship tags which have been applied early to let readers know what they're in for. Rating will most likely be changed to 'Explicit' at a later date.
> 
> Enjoy!

Your sense of temperature is the first to wake up in the morning, the sun on your legs far too warm for your comfort. Shifting slightly to re-position yourself on the bed and away from the offending stream of light, you groan as your brain claws its way up from the depths of sleep. Sounds from around your apartment complex assault you next as bit by bit your body realizes that you are, in fact, awake and unlikely to find your comfy again any time soon. A pang from your bladder reinforces that thought.

Your gaze is drawn to the clock on your bedside table. It’s nearly noon. How the hell did you sleep this long?

Right. Late-night grind to one last loot box had turned into three.

You chuckle to yourself as you drag your body out of bed, grabbing your phone on the way. No texts, no emails, and nothing on the calendar for the day. Ahh, yes. The perfect, lazy Sunday. The rest of your family would be long gone on errands by now, leaving the place all to yourself. You know what that means for your plans: A nice, quiet gaming session with nobody to pester you.

You flow through your morning routine in a content, zombie-like state. Washroom. Clothes. Coffee. Breakfast. Water the plants on the balcony before you forget again and almost kill the mints. You pause for a few minutes while out on the balcony, listening to the sounds of cars driving on the nearby highway and your neighbours being their noisy selves. A family down below rushes out the front doors, late for some appointment or church or whatever. You sigh before heading back inside. People need to relax and take the time to enjoy their day off without filling the day with a million tasks.

Finally, after finishing your second cup of coffee and putting a third on, you feel awake enough to get some gaming in. Overwatch doesn’t need to patch, so you’re able to just jump into quickplay and immediately are thrown into a match.

**[NO DEFENSE HEROES]**

Well, that settles that then.

“It's a perfect day for some mayhem!”

You can’t help but chuckle as you jump straight into the fray, lobbing explosives with practiced accuracy as you fight to keep the attacking team off of your point. Each grenade is launched with tender loving care as your team completely obliterates the enemy through three consecutive matches. Sure you’d had to swap to Mei or Bastion once or twice, but all in all it was a good run.

Stretching in your computer chair to pop your back, you wish the team well and exit out to open a loot box just as the power flickers and goes out.

“Oh, no no no. Poor baby!”

You frown, playfully patting your computer tower as you move to poke your head out onto the balcony. Checking up and down the street, the traffic lights to either direction seem to be out. You find yourself thankful that there are no cars on the road to cause an accident.

Grabbing your coffee and phone, you lounge back on the couch to appreciate the quiet that the rare power outage always brings. No refrigerator humming, no neighbours’ televisions or stereo systems, no air conditioning units. Quiet is a true rarity in the city and you aim to appreciate it to the fullest, pulling your phone up in the meantime to check the news on the outage.

At least, until you realize your phone is somehow dead, too.

You sigh, tossing the useless brick of electronics onto the coffee table and making a mental note to charge it later. Your 3DS has been charging in your room all night, so at least you’ll have some games to play while you wait out the- No, that’s dead too. You groan, praying to the electronics gods that the power surging hadn’t fried the machine. You glance at your bedside clock before flailing your hands in frustration at realizing that, duh, that’s an electronic as well.

You pull a random book off of the shelf in the living room and curl up into a grumpy pile on the couch again as your neighbours start arguing about god-knows-what.

“So much for quiet,” you grumble as you thumb through the pages looking for wherever you’d left off on this book. It is one of your favourites and yet you find you can’t focus on the words on the page at all. Every time you finish a paragraph you can’t seem to recall what you’d just read. You fling the book across the room in annoyance, hoping the thud it makes on the opposite wall will remind the bickering idiots next door that they aren’t alone in the building.

The book hits the wall and doesn’t make a sound. You raise your eyebrows at that. The frantic shouting is now punctuated by muffled crashes.

Something is wrong. You feel your heartbeat quicken as you make a dash for the front door. Something is very wrong, and you can’t put your finger on it. Why? Why can’t you focus?

Your vision is suddenly flooded with a close-up view of your carpet.

When did you fall?

Your lungs are on fire, every breath laboured as if you’re forcing water through them. You can taste salt. You try to move but every attempt elicits only a twitch in response. You open your mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. Your skin tingles with the familiar feeling of moisture. The shouting is louder. The world is turning in on itself, the walls shattering into a million pieces as everything you know turns black.

There is only water, salt, the feeling of floating, the burning in your lungs, and the muffled shouting.

And then, suddenly, the fevered yelling isn’t entirely wordless.

“What’s the worst that could happen? Just yank ‘er out ‘n let’s go! C’mon c’mon c’mon!”

“Not until we pull the drive.”

The second speaker’s low, exasperated rumble sends a chill up your spine. There is an unintelligible shout followed by an ear-splitting shriek of metal on metal as you furiously blink your eyes, trying to will your vision to clear.

“Here! See? It’s pulled! Can we fuckin’ go now? Much fun as I’m havin’ blowing these fucks to kingdom come, I’m runnin’ outta invent’ry to chuck.”

This feels wrong. You’re having a heart attack or a stroke or something. Breathing is difficult, each inhale laboured and taking way more effort than it should. You try to make sense of what you’re feeling before it dawns on you that you aren’t breathing air, but liquid. You are literally breathing water right now, or something like it. It feels too thick and all you can taste is salt. You freeze, holding your breath to keep yourself from choking despite logic telling you ‘if you were breathing it fine a second ago, it’s not going to hurt now.’

Don’t panic. It’s all in your head. It has to be. Right?

You’re being pulled upwards. You can feel something tangled and tugging at your hair as you are removed from the briny liquid, but any attempts to brush it away are instantly thwarted as the weight of your limbs dawns on you. Your arms are lead, and you can’t help but think in a moment your legs will feel the same. The longer you remain in this blackness, the more sensation you recover. It’s like waking up, but very slowly.

“Shit mate, she ain’t decent!”

“So?”

“Oh don’t look at me like that, I’m not going all righteous on ya. But you know we’re gonna get shit on somethin’ awful if we bring ‘er out like that.”

There are arms under your back and knees now as your lungs protest your bated breath. You attempt to carefully exhale the held water, but your body is having none of that on the following inhale. You cough and sputter as your lungs attempt to remember what to do with actual oxygen in the absence of the saline solution. You are jostled this way and that as the man holding you attempts to shift you to a comfortable carry in one arm while you squirm. How massive is this guy?

Something light is draped over your skin, just as whatever has been blocking your sight is tugged off of your head. The light is painfully white-hot and blinding against your eyelids but all you can do is cough and retch, trying to will your lungs to work properly as you struggle to be put down. The massive arm around you grips tighter and the hyper voice from before pipes up in far less grating, almost soothing tone.

“We gotcha sheila. Fucks’ll burn ‘afore they get their paws on you again. We’ll get’cha out.”

“She looks like shit.”

“He means we missed ya.”

The chest you’re being crushed against vibrates with a deep, wheezing chuckle.

You finally manage to stop the violent coughing fit as the two begin to move, your bizarre mode of transportation jostling you this way and that as he lumbers after the other man. You try to take a peek at your surroundings but the sterile fluorescence of the lighting here is completely blinding, sending stabbing pain through your head every time you attempt a glance. You groan in defeat and bury your face in the man’s chest, trying your damndest to ignore the discomfort of being carried like this.

You lose track of time as you wind through endless corridors, the two men not seeming to speed up or slow down at all as you feel yourself casually ascending a staircase. A commotion echoes suddenly below you in a burst of barked orders and hurried steps. There is a soft “pop!” nearby and a fading metallic clatter before your senses are rocked by what you could only define as the noise of an explosion and the smell of sulphur.

To say you’re terrified would be an absolute understatement. It’s one thing to be in a situation like this. It’s another entirely to be completely helpless while doing so. You can barely move, you can’t see, and every breath feels like you’re inhaling pure ethanol. You realize you’re shaking from the adrenaline.

A door slams open and you’re held even tighter against the man’s chest as an eerie silence falls over your surroundings. You can feel the growing tension and hold your breath again, afraid that making any noise at this point would be lethal. And then, everything seems to assault your senses at once. Your captor’s companion hollers joyfully, there is shouting once again, and shots ring out around you in a staccato chorus.

You are shaken violently, surrounded by the sounds of gunfire and death and flame. Thundering shots ring out from beside your legs whenever one of the strange voices comes too close as you navigate the winding hallways once again.

Suddenly, the blinding white against your clenched eyelids is gone, replaced by a darker environment and a cool breeze. Your lungs still sting as you greedily gulp the fresh air, the last remnants of the fluid finally cleared from all the coughing. You risk cracking your eyes open, but you can barely make out the colored splotch of the man above you, let alone any of your surroundings.

“Get ‘er to the ship mate, I’ve got yer arse.”  

The man above you lets out a rolling growl and his companion cackles wildly in response.

“Hey! She don’t make it, we don’t get paid eh? I’ll be right behind ya. Just gonna toss some bungers first.”

What the heck is a bunger?

Your train of thought is interrupted as you begin moving again at a faster pace. You clench and unclench your fists and toes, trying to banish the tingling numbness in your limbs as you are carried through what sounds like thick underbrush. The sounds of gunfire and explosions are almost too-quickly silenced by the thick trees you can barely make out against the sky. Your companion is silent save for the rasping breaths above you.

“Stop where yeh are!”

You jump violently at the shout, thick with an accent you can’t quite put your finger on. What now? More fighting? Your temporary vehicle sighs low and deep as the night’s silence is interrupted by a shrill beep followed by a mechanical whirr.

“Oh! Yer back! We were worried when communication was cut off from you two. What happened in ‘dere? Where’s twiggy?” You look up and towards the source of the voice as it approaches, but your eyes still refuse to focus for you. At least proper feeling is returning to your hands, the pins and needles slowly ebbing.

“Comms fucked up soon as we found her cell. Jammed.”

You cover your eyes as quickly as possible when another blinding light appears and sweeps towards the two of you, illuminating the area briefly (and causing another unpleasant surge of a headache) before going out. The fellow nearby lets out a hearty laugh that echoes through the trees and seems to completely melt the tension.

“I’ll be damned! You’ve got her! You’re such a big lug I didn’t even notice the extra baggage!” You start moving again, another annoyed sigh rumbling from your holder. “Ugh. Naked as a babe, at that. I’ll let the big guy know yer on your way back to the ship.”

Naked as a babe? You are suddenly hyper-aware of the thin, wet fabric that is draped over your form yet provides no barrier between your nudity and the body carrying you. You clumsily clutch the sheet closer, your actions accompanied by a darkly amused chuckle above you. The embarrassed heat flushing your cheeks and chest has you silently thanking the darkness that swallows the rough path you seem to be travelling down.

The silence is broken again by a loud hissing noise and the world becomes unbearably bright once again. You squeeze your eyes shut and groan in pain, burying your face in the wall of flesh beside you.

“Delivery.” He rumbles.

A new deep, gravelly voice sounds nearby. “Excellent! I’ll contact the other teams to withdraw! Does she require medical assistance? Angela is with Lena’s team.”

Hold the mother _fucking_ phone. No. This is impossible.

“Winston, She’s-”

“M’fine,” You croak, barely able to recognize your own voice. The act of speaking is setting fire to your throat, but this fucked-up hallucinatory madness has hit a whole new level. “Can’t see for shit, but that’s clearing up. Now put me the fuck down. Please.” Grunting in surprise, the arm around you lowers and allows you slip from its grasp.

You instantly regret this decision as your useless noodles for legs give out under your own weight. Your reflexes are on-point, grabbing to hold the sheet to your body as a pair of massive hands reach to support you. You swat them away and drag yourself up onto what feels like a nearby seat. Madness. You’ve gone absolutely batshit, cheese-off-cracker crazy. You need a second to process this.

You try to look up towards the two men in the room but the stabbing sensation behind your eyes reminds you that the lights are on in here.

“Can we kill the lights please? Shit’s killing me.” Despite your own request, you gasp as the lighting instantly dims to tolerable levels.

“Understood,” a computerized woman’s voice quietly floats through the ship you now recognize through your slowly clearing vision. “It is a pleasure to have you back, agent. I do hope you regain your ability to curb your profanities in the near future.”

“ _Thank you_ , Athena.” You can almost hear his eyes roll as Winston approaches you cautiously, nabbing a long coat from a nearby locker on the way over. Your eyes finally adjust to the point you can see semi-clearly and you’re left gaping, jaw-dropped, at the two giants standing in front of you as they come more and more into focus.

Roadhog and Winston.

From Overwatch.

Characters from the game you were playing not an hour ago.

But they look… Wrong. Not the stylized masses of polygons that you know from Blizzard’s character models. The more your vision recovers in the dim lighting the more realistic the two of them appear. Sore throat be damned, you let out a surprised squeak as the weight of your current situation dawns on you.

Winston drapes the coat over you and gives you a careful, one-armed hug.

  
“It pains me to say it, but we weren’t sure if you were actually in there. The intel was from an… Unreliable source.” You can hear his voice crack. Behind him, Roadhog gives you a silent thumbs-up as you stare on in shock. Winston’s hug tightens ever so slightly before he straightens, clearing his throat. “Thank goodness you’re safe. We never lost hope.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! For those not following my blog, it's been a hectic week. Not only have I been sick, I got stranded overnight on the streets of Toronto and assaulted. Recovering from that, paired with going to Toronto AGAIN this past weekend, it's been pretty crazy.
> 
> Also I got distracted while looking something up for this chapter and ended up reading The Anarchist’s Cookbook for like an hour. I’m pretty sure I officially qualify to be put on a few government lists now.

The fabric of the lab coat is rough against your still-too-sensitive skin and you can’t help but flinch as you slip your arms through the sleeves. Everything still tingles, but at least now you’re  _ mostly _ proper, the sheet draped over your legs where the coat doesn’t manage to provide coverage.  _ One thing at a time _ , you think to yourself. Don’t panic. Focus on one thing at a time. Don’t lose it.

Whatever is going on, there’s no sense working yourself up over it. Wherever you actually are, whatever has gone wrong, things will go one of two ways: You’ll wake up eventually in a hospital somewhere, or you’ll stay in this coma (or whatever it is) until you die. 

“This is the part where I just play along with it, huh?” You rasp out loud, throat still protesting at the effort. The gorilla pauses and turns to shoot a questioning look at Roadhog. The junker simply shrugs in response and stands near the door, wringing water out of his overall straps.

“What do you mean, ‘play along’?” Winston’s expression shifts from confused to concerned, his gaze locking onto yours as if attempting to read your mind. “Are you alright, Snare?” 

“Snare? My name is-” You blink stupidly as Winston places a massive finger over your lips in a silencing motion. 

“In the interest of anonymity and with present company, your field moniker will suffice.” His face softens, a look of confusion laced with protectiveness flirting over his features once more as he lowers his voice and leans in close. “You… Don’t need to talk about it now. But are you sure you’re alright?” His eyes flit to your state of dress before returning to meet yours. “I’m going to recall Angela’s team, if you would be more comfortable speaking with her or Lena.” 

There’s an unspoken thought there. A question or an implication, you can’t be sure which. Whatever it is, his tone hints that you really don’t want to know.

“That’s Mercy and Tracer,” you state matter-of-factly in an attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere, and Winston’s frown deepens. You sigh and lean back in the seat, trying to ignore the safety restraint poking at you. “That makes you, those two, Roadhog, going to assume Junkrat, the guard on the way here must’ve been Torbjörn going from the accent,” Is anyone else playing a part in this fucked-up fever dream?

“Hana is here as well. She insisted on being included on this mission.”

Well, that answers that question. You nod to yourself and Winston pulls away, tapping at something on his collar. “Good news everyone, the mission is a success. Please make your way back to the ship at your earliest convenience. Be safe, everyone.” His amber eyes almost shine in the darkness and the note of pride on his voice is impossible to miss. He nods at you one last time before making his way up towards the orange glow of the cockpit. 

You cautiously test your legs, forcing them to take some of your weight as you grip the seat for dear life. For a dream, this is pretty inconvenient. “Not a thing,” you mumble to yourself. Your legs are still shaky, but with support you manage to stand for a moment before collapsing into the chair again. “You’d think I’d be a bit less of a wimp in my own fuckin’ dream.”

Roadhog huffs from by the hatch, and a glance over sends a chill running up your spine. With that mask over his face you can’t be sure if he’s staring, but it sure as hell feels like it. 

There is an uncomfortable silence as you study him in the dim light. It’s almost a game, trying to spot what looks the same as his character model and what is new; unique to this eerie hallucination. He looks…. Older. You can make out the sunspots peppering his skin and how the tattoo on his massive gut is fading slightly. His clothes are pretty on-point, right down to the vanity plate screwed to his overalls. His weapons look brutish in the dark and practically scream their lethality. 

He looks tensed, fists clenched as he finally shifts to look out the hatch. Maybe he noticed you staring back. Despite his girth the man looks as though he could spring into action at a moment’s notice. Seeing just how little armor he wears up-close, you can understand why he’s not too effective as a tank without teammates to back him up. 

You sigh and chuckle to yourself. Here you are in a room with a living, breathing killing machine and all you can think of are video game mechanics. You need to say something - anything - to break this silence before you go more insane than you already apparently are.

And then, with a loud hiss, the sound of the hatch opening breaks the silence for you and the perfectly dim room is bathed in a fluorescent blue hue.

“Where is she?!”

If the other two had looked hyper-realistic, Tracer looks downright comical smeared in dirt and drying blood. The woman is thin and awkward-looking as her gaze sweeps around the dropship. Her hair is a windswept disaster, much to your amusement. 

You avert your eyes from the device on her chest, the light instantly re-igniting the migraine flirting at the edges of your vision. As she finally spots you and dashes to your side, you can’t help but flinch. She completely ignores all respect for personal space as she launches herself at you, pulling you into quite possibly the tightest hug you have ever received. 

Your skin screams in protest at the rough contact and you hiss in pain, recoiling. As quickly as she was on you, Tracer is suddenly on the opposite end of the ship looking somewhat hurt at your reaction. She’s practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, arms hovering slightly raised as if she doesn’t know what to do with her hands.

“Sorry love! Poor habits. Haven’t hurt you, ‘ave I?”

“No more than everything else has today. Shit.” You shake your head as her hands finally prop themselves on her hips and she studies you right back, wrinkling her nose. 

“Oof! And you smell like seawater! Guess ya took that beach vacay without us? Or are you just  _ salty  _ that the Junkers dragged you nakey through a small army? Is that Angie’s coat?”

At the mention of salt your stomach turns, your senses suddenly hyper-aware of the taste flooding your senses. You’d gotten used to the sensation enough to ignore it, but Tracer’s words bring it back to the forefront of your thoughts. Curling into yourself and trying to focus on your breathing to fight the wave of nausea that follows, you hold up a finger to signal Tracer that you’ll talk to her in a moment. Unfortunately for you, the poor girl’s attention span has already expired.

“You alright love? Winston what’s wrong with her? Angela!” In a stream of blue she’s gone, a moment later reappearing dragging a rather exhausted-looking Mercy through the hatch behind her. Behind them still, you gape at the sight of D.Va’s MEKA as it crouches through the doorway and makes its way to the farthest end of the ship. Roadhog repositions himself out of the way, still peering out into the night through the hatch.

Mercy is on you in an instant and, expecting more uncomfortable hugging, you raise a hand to keep some distance between the two of you as you struggle to suppress your gag reflex. She raises her own hand in a pacifying motion and slows, bringing herself beside you but still at arm’s length as she works her palm in slow, calming circles on your back.

“There there, you have surely been through much. I am here only to help you.” 

You eye her warily. Her voice has that same hint of something left unsaid, like a topic she’s afraid to bring up in present company. It finally dawns on you as she smooths the fabric of the coat over your back: You were just pulled completely naked out of a god-knows-where facility filled to the brim with who you can only assume to be very, very bad men. It would make sense for them to tiptoe around the worst-case scenario.

“You think- Oh. Oh no, no no, I’m fine!” You can’t help barking a raspy laugh at this ridiculous situation. Out the corner of your vision you can see Roadhog and Tracer visibly relax somewhat, releasing a tension you hadn’t realized they’d been holding. Mercy lets out a sigh of relief as well. “I’m fine, really. Hallucinating something awful, but otherwise fine. This is fucking insane.” 

Mercy hums and taps a finger to her headpiece, bringing some sort of hologram display projecting from the halo-like device. From where you’re sitting you can make out what looks like your pulse, body temperature, and a ton of medical jargon and readings you don’t understand. You watch her eyes flit between looking at you and reading the information displayed in front of her. After a moment she raises an eyebrow and claps her hands together softly. 

“You do not have a fever, or any apparent head injuries for that matter. This is good. Are your hallucinations auditory or visual?” 

“I’m pretty sure you’re the hallucinations, actually.” You start, laughing aloud with a rather unladylike snort that causes the other woman to jump. May as well be honest. It’s not going to matter once you wake up anyway. If you wake up. Don’t think about the “if”. 

Oh fuck, what if it  _ is _ a solid “if”?

“I can assure you, this is quite real.” She holds her hand to yours, inviting you to take it. You do, taking a moment to run your fingers over the supple leather of her gloves. Pressing against her wrist, you can feel the light flutter of her pulse through the material. It feels so  _ real _ . “That’s it. See? Perfectly tangible. No illusions, no tricks. You’re free of that awful place.”

“There is no way in hell this is real. It’s impossible. I’ve-” You gesture to the ship around you, using your other hand to tug the lab coat tighter around your body once again. You’re starting to get really sick of feeling damp. Someone in the ship is laughing at you. “I’ve died or something. I’m in a coma in a fucking hospital. I’m- ahh, fuck if I know what I am. But there’s no way that any of this is real.” It takes you a moment to realize that you’re the one laughing. “Good job, brain! Perfectly vivid detail! I’d like to wake up now! This has gone on long enough!”

Mercy is staring at you wide-eyed as you laugh coldly to yourself and ramble on, wrapping your arms around yourself defensively as you drop your gaze. A part of you is screaming internally that you need to calm down, that you’re managing to do that panic-thing you’ve so far avoided. The rest of you is caught up in a spiral of hurt and confusion and panic and hysteria and-

_ CLUNK! CLUNK! CLUNK! _

You are caught off-guard as a sharp pain taps rhythmically against the back of your skull. Not too hard, but enough to sting. The string of colorful expletives die on your tongue as the overwhelming emotions die off all at once. For a split second there is only the whirr of the ship, the sound of your breathing, and your pulse hammering in your ears.

And then, there is the unmistakable voice of Hana Song.

“Knock knock. What are you, high?” The statement is blunt and rough, and you look up to see the slight Korean girl massaging her knuckles as she narrows her eyes at you. Tracer is a few steps behind her demonstrating a textbook facepalm. “Less QQ, more ‘thank you’. What, did they suck the manners right out of you?” Before you can even think to snap back at her, you feel Mercy place a hand on your knee and give a gentle squeeze. 

“We do not know if she has been dosed or kept under sedation, miss Song.” Mercy’s voice has gone cold and methodical.  “Perhaps she is still recovering from-”

“She was in a tank,” Roadhog suddenly interrupts from his post across the room. “Some kind of VR rig. We pulled the drive.” He leans back against the wall with a huff, jabbing his thumb towards the hatch. “Jamison has it.” 

As if on cue, the hatch releases and a rather vexed-looking Torbjörn enters the ship with the lanky junker on his heels. Roadhog grabs him by the back of his grenade harness as he passes, yanking him backwards and holding him at mask level. 

“You took too long, Rat.”

Everything about Junkrat is pretty much how you would expect a homicidal demolitionist and anarchist to look. Edgy patches are sewn haphazardly onto nearly every inch of his shorts and he is covered head to toe in soot, blood, and grime. His hair is quite literally glowing like embers at the tips. How does that even work?

Radiation, probably.

“Had to set up a little farewell gift as a thank’ya for their fine hospitality! Wouldn’t wanna be rude.”

Hog drops Junkrat at that, holding out a palm expectantly. “Drive,” he demands roughly, wiggling his fingers. The thinner man pauses for a moment before realization crosses his features and he begins digging through his pockets and pouches. After a moment, he pulls out a small black box and drops it into the massive hand blocking his progress from entering the ship proper. 

You raise your voice enough to be heard by the two junkers. “I thought you said you were nearly out of bombs?” Junkrat’s head whips in your direction, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear. His eyes are practically glittering.

“Oi! Yer awake proper now? Well, I reckon a big fancy building in the middle o’the fuckin’ jungle’s gotta generate power somehow, right?” D.Va “oooh”s and cranes her neck to peek out the windows at the side of the ship. Junkrat chuckles and continues: “Well where there’s a generata’, there’s delicate machinery what usually don’t take too kindly to having their bits n’ bobs tinkered with.” 

“Oh, fer the love of-” Torbjörn grumbles and waddles his way towards the row of seats opposite you, strapping himself in securely as he motions towards Tracer. “Get ‘dis bird in the air before we get more company or this fool boy gets us blown ‘ta bits.” She nods at him and in a flash of blue she’s disappeared to join Winston at the front of the ship. The others follow Torbjörn’s lead, filing into the seats in an exhausted, mechanical motion.

All except Junkrat, who practically flings himself into the seat next to yours (eliciting a rather exasperated sigh from Mercy). 

“So as I was sayin,” he pats down the pockets of his shorts for a moment before thrusting a small mess of wires in front of your face. “A rush job, s’not pretty, but I reckon it’ll get shit done.” He gestures to a small metal cylinder where several wires converge. “That lil’ case opens, and everything’s comin’ up explodey!” 

“Jamison  _ please _ ,” Mercy sighs as she assists you in fastening the safety restraints. Junkrat stops for a moment but then dangles the small device in front of you again the second the safety bar has been lowered. 

“So…?” His eyebrows wiggle seductively as he leans in close, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I know you usually let the fucks get themselves inta shit instead’a pullin’ the trigga ye’self.” Despite the grin, there’s a hint of nerves to his voice. “But jus’ this once I thought ya might want to do the honors. Considerin’ the circumstances and all that.” 

Mercy makes another sound of distaste as she fastens her own safety harness and bar, but your attention is focused on the tiny cylinder in front of your nose. Chances are good a lot of people are going to die if you open that case. But those same people had just shot at you and the Overwatch team, with obviously lethal intent judging from the amount of gore splattered about the people in the ship.

Unbeknownst to you, every eye in the dropship’s hold is on you and Junkrat as you cautiously take the makeshift detonator from his calloused hand. His expression shifts instantly from cautious optimism to pure shock, and then just as quickly back to the excited grin from earlier.

You dig your thumbnail into the cap, and snap it open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, if you notice any errors please feel free to let me know! A quick confirmation that the reader WILL remain UN-NAMED, but I will be using an agent moniker/nickname occasionally for ease of writing. 
> 
> Also, HOLY CRAP. Chapter one hit 130 kudos and over 1000 views, in a week and a half. That is CRAZY. I love you folks!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience while I waited off AO3’s email issues! 
> 
> I wanted to take a moment to send out a special “thank you!” to those of you who have been wonderful enough to grace this fic with your kudos and comments. It’s no secret that my motivation to write can slip when my depression hits on a bad week, and getting emails from AO3 filled with your enthusiasm is absolutely encouraging. I love every single one of you for it. Seriously.

There is a moment of heavy silence as the ship begins its liftoff. D.Va is still stretched around trying to look out the windows while the others stare at the makeshift detonator in your hands. Junkrat emits a high-pitched whine as the silence draws out and the ship breaks the jungle’s canopy.

“Ah, shit. I knew I shoulda’-”

The windows are bathed in an orange glow a split second before the deafening roar of an explosion reaches your ears. The ship shakes with Tracer’s efforts to fight the turbulence, causing your stomach to do fluttery backflips in protest. Your arm jumps to your face in an attempt to muffle the brightness assaulting your eyes, but you still choke out a laugh in response to Junkrat’s maniacal cackling. Damn, that laugh is contagious. He sounds so  _ happy _ . 

Even through the seemingly strict climate-control of the ship, you can feel the heat pulsing through your back. The annoyance and confusion of the past hour are replaced by a sense of wonder and amusement. Even though you can’t see it, you can imagine the amount of damage a blast that loud will deal. The small army will have its hands full trying to keep that explosion under control. Well, those that survived it.

The roar dies down and you lower your arm as the light filtering through your eyelids lowers in intensity. As the craft stabilizes, each crew member seems to let out a sigh of relief save for Junkrat and D.Va who are both struggling with their safety harnesses trying to get a better look out the windows at the retreating blaze. 

“OMG, that’s massive! All that from just a few generators?”

“Nah, I popped me RIP open for a few parts. Won’t ‘ave gotten a fraction’a that boom otherwise.”

There is a warm pulse of fondness in your chest as you watch the two scramble over each other at the large, transparent hatch door. Mercy uselessly calls out to them to return to their seats, but the two seem lost in their own world. They seem like pretty good friends, and in a strange way it’s comforting to see. Junkrat turns away from the view to wink at you before holding an open palm out to D.Va.

“Pay up Pipsqueak. You ‘n Frog owe me fifty each.” The lean junker is suddenly grinning like a coyote let free in a chicken farm, his tone absolutely dripping satisfaction. D.Va squeaks in surprise and jumps back from his outstretched hand as if it were a live bomb itself. 

“Are you being serious right now?” She hastily looks over at you before lowering her voice, but not enough to keep it from carrying in the small ship. “We made that bet like, at  _ least _ a year ago!”

“Yeah, and  _ I _ just won it!” Junkrat is apparently having none of her attempted discretion as he puffs his chest out with what you can only assume is a note of pride.

“Rat, you can’t be-”

“Nope! She blew one o’ me bombs! That was the condition, now pay up!”

There is no doubt in your mind that the look that D.Va shoots your way, while being playful, could curdle milk. Deliberately, and without taking her eyes from yours, the woman slaps her palm into Junkrat’s and grips it firmly in handshake with a mutter of “fine, once we get back.” He giggles in response, sending you a small wave before turning to once again observe the quickly shrinking pillar of flame and smoke in the distance as D.Va slinks back to her seat. 

You fidget in your seat as everyone seems to slip into a regular in-flight routine. Roadhog pulls a book out from under his seat as D.Va does the same with a handheld video game console. Torbjörn unfastens his harness and busies himself with a notebook. Mercy excuses herself and heads up towards the cockpit of the ship. Junkrat stays by the hatch, humming and tapping a mindless metallic rhythm onto the knee of his prosthetic as he watches the world fly by beneath. 

No matter their activity, you keep catching glances towards you when they don’t think you’re looking. There’s that feeling again. Like they’re not sure what to say, what to do. Your outburst earlier has obviously left a mark, but you have no idea what to say to reassure these people. Junkrat and Roadhog seem to be the only people in this damn ship at ease.

“Quick announcement, loves!” The loudspeaker buzzes slightly as it goes live, Tracer’s voice crackling through the room. Everyone perks up and waits for a continuation that doesn’t come, expressions turning to confusion. 

“Winston-” You can hear a suppressed giggle over the com. “Winston, the button. The button, love.”

“Ah yes. Well.” Winston’s deep tone practically oozes embarrassment. He clears his throat before continuing, and in the background you can hear Tracer and Mercy chuckling.

“As you are no doubt aware, our efforts to reclaim the facilities of Watchpoint: La Paz in Bolivia have reached a standstill as we negotiate with the UN. As such, we will be taking a short detour to refuel at São Paulo before beginning the 11-hour journey back to Gibraltr.” Across the room you can hear D.Va and Junkrat both groan dramatically as the trip’s duration is mentioned. “As we will be in the area, and he is finishing the final leg of his tour this evening, we have agreed to meet with Lúcio to save him the trouble of arranging transportation of questionable  _ legality _ out of the country.”

A murmur of excitement ripples through the dropship.

“It goes without saying that we are currently operating in a purely civilian capacity and should we encounter any law enforcement while refueling, they are not to be engaged in any way. Junkrat, Roadhog, for obvious reasons you are to remain in the Orca at all times.” Roadhog grunts in acceptance as Junkrat curses quietly under his breath. 

“The rest of you are free to visit the various shops around the airport. I’m already arranging for some meals to be delivered on our arrival. We should be in the air for another- How long, Lena?”

“About 3 hours, gang! Time for a nap if you’re eager. I’ll keep her flying smooth as a cloud for ya! But could I bother one of you to bring me a ‘cuppa, please? My loose is in the blue tin.”

To your surprise Roadhog grunts an affirmative and sets his book down, shuffling over to the small recreation area in the corner of the ship as the speakers click off with a pop.

The mood in the ship seems to have lightened considerably again at the mention of Lúcio, nearly dispelling the unease that had blanketed the room before. Still, nobody really speaks and you’re too exhausted both physically and mentally to attempt conversation. You resign yourself to studying the heroes, challenging yourself to pick out the small irregularities and differences between how they appear now and how they look in-game. 

It’s only a few minutes later when you are jostled out of your thoughts by a small mug being held in front of you between massive fingers. Roadhog stands completely still in front of you on his way to the cockpit, three mugs balanced in his other hand. The mug in front of you smells of mint. It’s comforting and warm, yet sharp and sweet. You take the mug with a smile and a nod, muttering your thanks quietly so as not to disturb the silence over the dull hum of the ship. 

“Ignore ‘em.”

You almost don’t hear him at first, but as his mask shifts to look directly at your face it dawns on you that he is in fact speaking to you. The muffled rumble of his voice is so quiet you can barely make it out despite him being only a foot or so in front of you.

“They took you for dead. Not your fault.” The confusion on your face must be obvious, as he huffs before continuing. “They almost gave up. Some did. Have ‘ta come to terms with that. Gonna be awkward. Gonna lie to ya. Don’t take it personal.”

He doesn’t hesitate at all before clapping his empty palm down roughly on your shoulder. You flinch slightly at the contact and nearly spill your tea, but if he notices he doesn’t seem to care. 

“Sleep. It’s a long trip. We’ve got you.” He shuffles a mug to his free hand and stomps off toward the cockpit without letting you respond.

\-----

Is it even possible to dream within a dream?

At first when you see the familiar apartment you feel a sense of relief. Everything is as it should be, from the dented coffee table to the pale walls to the stupid rainbow flecks in the otherwise dull grey carpet. Traffic beeps outside, birds sing on your balcony, and you can even hear the hum of your computer fans. 

And then the world shatters and you are left in a complete nothingness. Existence itself pulls you in every direction, tangling in your hair and stinging your skin. Your mouth is full of salt.

It takes a split second for recognition to set in. Just like that, you’re aware that this is a dream. 

You tell yourself to wake up, to open your eyes. Surprisingly, you do so just as something silky collides with your face. You let out a squeak of surprise and claw the offending fabric away, looking around in a panic as your brain registers your surroundings. It seems that at some point you had indeed dozed off, and someone had relocated you to the padded bench by the coffee maker in the corner of the ship.

D.Va leans on the table above you, a wicked grin plastered on her face as she prepares to toss another bundle of cloth at you. A delicate striped pattern catches your eye and you can feel the blood rush to your cheeks as you realize that she’s holding a pair of panties and a sports bra in her fist. Your head spins as you bolt upright, checking to see who else is present on the ship. To your relief Junkrat is fast asleep sprawled on the floor beneath Roadhog’s seat, where the massive man appears to be buried in a book once again. Aside from those two, you and D.Va seem to be the only ones present in the ship at the moment. Which is good, considering in your momentary panic you’ve completely forgotten to grip the borrowed lab coat around yourself.

“Really?” You bite back an embarrassed laugh and wrap yourself in the coat as D.Va tosses the undergarments directly in your face. Examining the small collection of cloth now in your lap, it seems the original offending item is a t-shirt with some sort of phrase in… What language is this? Portuguese? Maybe?

She pats a pile of denim topped with a pair of sandals sitting on the table next to her. 

“Got you something,” she says with a smile. “And there’s some food, too. Winston’s idea of dinner was pizza.” Her eyes roll as she jabs a thumb towards the other end of the table where several square boxes have been discarded. From her other side she lifts up two small take-out boxes. “Figured you could use some real food, so I brought back some bibimbap. Get dressed so you can eat it before it gets nasty.”

Maneuvering in the ship’s small bathroom to get changed proves to be a challenge. Doubly so once you realize you’ve missed some sales tags on the pants and have to shimmy out of them again. The clothes are simple in design, but incredibly comfortable. Once that is over with, you take a moment to look at yourself in the small mirror on the wall.

You can’t help but recall Roadhog’s first words to you. No wonder the heroes have been tiptoeing around you. 

You look like  _ shit _ .

You comb your fingers through your tangled hair as best you can to give some illusion of being put-together, but it’s to no avail. Your skin looks downright sickly and pale. There are deep bags under your eyes as if you haven’t slept in weeks. Your eyes themselves are threaded with bright red vessels. Your hair is in desperate need of a trim. 

You pause, swallowing thickly as you notice the faint bruised outline of where the mask from the tank had sat on your face. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s there. A quiet voice in your mind can’t help but wonder if outside this crazy hallucination you’re maybe hooked up to similar machinery in a hospital somewhere. 

  
It’s only when there’s a soft knock at the door that you realize you’re crying. Tearing some tissues from the dispenser near the sink, you dab at your eyes and take one last look at yourself before sliding the door open. You don’t know what the hell ‘bibimbap’ is, but the concept of food sounds pretty damn good right about now.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Life has been hectic, but with a few minor lifestyle changes I have time to write again.
> 
> That said, from this point forward I will no longer attempt to reach a specific word-count for my chapters. I’ve discussed it with a few readers privately (thanks again), and the general consensus seems to be that avoiding burnout and getting the story out there, regardless of length, is ideal. This will mean that chapters will more than likely be shorter, but should result in updates more frequently. That said: 330 kudos in 3 chapters! My goodness, you guys are amazing!

It turns out that bibimbap is delicious. 

The dish consists of meat, vegetables and an egg that are supposed to be mixed into a big bowl of rice. Certainly not what you were expecting (especially the egg) but it is fresh, warm, and filling. D.Va absolutely obliterates her bowl while you look on in stunned silence. Where the hell is such a small girl putting all that food so quickly?

“So,” D.Va places her spoon down and impatiently eyes your unfinished bowl. “The others are taking their sweet time. I’m just going to say it: What the hell happened to you in there?”

You freeze, a spoonful of rice halfway to your mouth.

“You’ve been acting glitched out since we got back to the ship.” Perfectly manicured fingernails tap a quiet beat onto the tabletop as she searches your expression for some hidden truth. “Angie thinks it’s just shock. I’ve seen enough war-dazed pilots back home to know that’s bullshit. Something’s up. So spill.”

You lower the spoon, avoiding her gaze. This girl tells things like it is. You can respect that, but what can you even tell her? The crew has already shrugged off your claims that this is all some hallucination or fever dream. Is there even a way to make her listen?

“D.Va, I-”

“ **Hana!** ” Her angry interruption startles you as she slams her palm down on the table. Behind her, there is a thump followed by a loud string of cursing as Junkrat bolts awake and cracks his head against Roadhog’s seat. 

“See, this is what I’m talking about! You never call me D.Va!” Your pulse hammers uncomfortably as she tosses her bowl aggressively into the take-out bag. This is too much hostility. You remind yourself to breathe.

Hana’s expression melts from anger to concern near-instantly as you push the bowl away and stand, hands shaking. Roadhog mirrors your movement and makes his way to the table, muscles taut as if expecting trouble.

“Hana, then.” Your mind is tugging your emotions every which way as your own disbelief begins to falter. She really seems to  _ care _ , but attacking you with accusations is not helping your current state of mind. “I’m going outside to get some air.” Hana twists in her seat to catch your arm as you brush past her, but Roadhog grabs her wrist with a grunt. You stop at the hatch as it hisses open automatically, a wave of heat washing over you. 

“Just give me a few minutes.” 

Any reply Hana has is cut off as the door pulls shut behind you. 

The early morning sun paints the tarmac in reds and golds, waves of heat slightly distorting your view of the other crafts parked at the airport. Small hovering carts speed from place to place, servicing and carting baggage to and from the ships. It’s noisy, but not unbearably so. 

A nervous giggle bubbles from your lips as you pace outside the ship, urging your nerves to calm. You can’t seem to shake the nagging feeling that something is very, very wrong. It’s like having a horribly obvious word on the tip of your tongue. It flits away every time you try to say it.

Maybe if you can find what you’ve lost you might just wake up. Most likely, you won’t. Thank you, pessimism. 

With a drawn-out sigh, you drop cross-legged onto the pavement and watch the hustle and bustle of the workers. Whatever backstory your overactive brain’s come up with for this dream, you wish you’d been made privy to it. What’s the point in dreaming about a game if you can’t play it? Wouldn’t it make more sense to drop yourself into the middle of Overwatch as a badass heroine like some wonderfully terrible fanfiction? 

You could go on blissfully unaware! Have adventures! Shit, even weird sex dreams would be preferable to sitting secluded and self-aware, wondering if you’re in a coma in a hospital somewhere. Or dead. Or something.

“Fucking fuck.” You rest your chin on your palm and pull your lip contemplatively between your teeth. You can’t just go along with it like this. Dream or no dream, it feels like lying to these people would have consequences down the line. A muffled shout leaks from the ship behind you as if to add emphasis your point. You’ve seen enough bad movies to know that pretending to be someone you aren’t just isn’t possible to keep up.

That settles it, then. Maybe they’ll stop tiptoeing around you and just accept that you aren’t who they think they rescued from that facility. You’ll just have to be completely honest with them and pray for the best.

The unmistakable roar of a gas engine interrupts your thoughts, a sharp contrast to the hum of the hovering vehicles that dominate the airport. You watch curiously as a battered jeep swerves its way around one of the service carts nearby, prompting a rather angry-sounding string of what can only be expletives from the operator. A pale woman stands in the driver’s seat, drowning in a mess of blonde hair as she gestures back while shouting awkwardly over the engine. One of the other occupants reaches in front of her, grabbing the wheel in a panic, and you can’t help but chuckle.

“Desculpe, foi sem querer!”

To your surprise the jeep parks near the nose of Overwatch’s ship, cutting the engine as a group of dark-skinned men and women hop out, chattering amongst themselves excitedly. A few of them nod in your direction, acknowledging your presence without interrupting the others.

Despite their mirthful appearance, it doesn’t escape your notice that all but one of them are carrying weapons of some variety. The pale girl from before needs to shift a rather serious-looking rifle off of her back in order to pull a massive hockey bag from the back of the jeep. The others group around a shorter man and all talk over each other at once. 

“Come on guys,” he switches to English seamlessly, raising his voice to get their attention. “She’s getting good, but not quite  _ that _ good. Switch it up for a bit.” The gang laughs and there’s a string of apologies in broken english as the girl passes the bag over.

“Lúcio, I’m never going to learn if you keep coddlin’ me.” Her voice is tinged with the drawl of the southern United States, hinting at her origins. You pull yourself up from the ground and dust off your jeans, leaning to get a better look through the group at Lúcio. With his hair down and without his gear you hadn’t seen the similarities, but it suddenly makes sense. Every member of the group seems to look up to him with stars in their eyes, even if he is considerably shorter than they are. They must be his security detail, of sorts.

“Well we have 5 hours to swing back to Rio before the V-lot notice y’all slipped out. Poor bastards thought they had ya this time.” The blonde smiles and hops back into the jeep lithely while the others say their goodbyes and filter into the vehicle themselves. Lúcio hefts the massive bag over his shoulder and leans up to high-five the members of the group.

“We’re doing good work here, you guys. This would not have happened without you. We raised so much for those kids-” His voice is warm and heavy with emotion as the group tears up along with him. “We’ll get something figured out for a few months from now. Maybe once the new album drops.” There is another chorus of farewells as the jeep drives off, nearly hitting another service cart on the way. 

Lúcio stands there for a few minutes, even after the jeep disappears behind a building. For the millionth time today, you feel as though you’re intruding on something private. Something that wasn’t meant for you. 

“Thanks.” You look around wildly, trying to see whoever he’s talking to. He wipes the tears from his face, takes a long breath, and finally turns to face you. “They needed that, I think. But now…” Even weighed down by the massive bag, Lúcio closes the distance between the two of you in an instant, a tired but happy smile plastered on his face. You flinch, expecting the same reaction as you’d gotten from the others. “Winston didn’t tell me you were back.”

“Well that’s not the greeting I was expecting,” you admit with a laugh, running your fingers through your hair as you extend a hand politely. Lúcio takes it and grips it firmly in a shake before pulling you into a gentle, one-armed hug. You’re completely taken aback by his casual tone. So much so, that you nearly forget your decision not moments ago. No lies, by omission or otherwise.

“No sense getting worked up over it. They taunted us at first, ya know?” He releases you from the hug and meets your eyes, unblinking as he reads your confusion. “Messages left here and there. Photos. The occasional sound bite. We were angry. Heck, even I might have suggested a few  _ extreme _ missions to get back at ‘em.”

“But that meant you were alive. They needed you that way for some reason, even if it was to piss us off. I knew you’d hold on. So you bein’ back? Inevitable. Just another day at the office.”

The guilt gnaws at you. “Not quite,” the sound of your heartbeat is loud in your ears as you try to swallow the thick lump in your throat. “I’m not exactly sure what’s going on, but...” 

Just say it outright. What’s the worst that could happen? 

“Your colleagues seem stubbornly determined that I’m one of your old co-workers, but this is my first time meeting all of you.” You take a breath and hold it, watching as his smile falls.

“That’s not funny.” The frown on his face looks out of place for some reason. You get the feeling the person in front of you should always be smiling, no exceptions. “Leave that stuff for Hana and Jamie. Come on, it’s me.” 

“No pranks. No jokes. I can’t keep this up.” You step to the side to lean against the ship’s grounding supports, gesturing to nothing in particular as you speak and taking slight comfort in the hand motions. “They won’t take no for an answer, Lúcio. One minute I’m in my living room with a damn book and the next I’m being dragged through a fucking firefight. By Overwatch, of all people.” 

This feels good, surprisingly. You can see Lúcio’s eyes flitting around your form, taking in your features as if trying to validate your claims. But he doesn’t look angry, and that’s comforting. And so, you continue on your rant.

“I’ve been dragged around naked for an hour. Treated like I’m made of glass. Poked and prodded by Mercy. Blew up a building. Yelled at by D-” You catch yourself and Lúcio raises an eyebrow quizzically. “Yelled at by Hana. Shit, the big bad one-man-apocalypse himself even made me fuckin’ tea. This is all beyond absurd. Fucking crazy shit. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to smell like salt for a year.” You cringe at the thought, your stomach fluttering lightly.

“And even though I outright told the lot I’m pretty sure this is all some hallucination or fucked-up fever dream, it’s just- It’s just fuckin’-” A frustrated growl rumbles from your throat as you run your fingers through your hair again, trying to calm yourself down. How is it that talking to him is so easy? He’s just standing there, hanging on your every word and nodding along, giving “hmms” and other noises of encouragement. 

“They just dismiss me. Act like I never said anything about it. At first I was just going to go along with it, but I can’t keep that up.”

“So, you can’t remember any of us then?” There’s a hint of hurt to his voice, but it’s nearly overshadowed by curiosity. “They shouldn’t have dismissed you like that. You’re totally right to be upset. I’m sorry.” Damn, this guy is kind to a fault, isn’t he? Lúcio looks thoughtful for a moment as he lowers the heavy bag to the tarmac and sits on it. 

“I’m pretty sure I’d remember being part of a group like this. No, I was at home and then suddenly I wasn’t.”

“And your home was at the place we took you from?” He’s not looking at you anymore but at the ship, eyes narrowed as he takes in what you’re trying to explain. 

“No,” memories of your home dissolving around you send a chill up your spine. “I’m from up north. Little apartment with a shit view. And none of this-” You point to one of the passing hover vehicles with raised eyebrows. “Or this!” Jabbing a thumb back towards the ship, you wrinkle your nose. “Overwatch is a game where I’m from. A collection of characters and lore and stories.”

You had meant it literally, but Lúcio just laughs and nods. “We’re not exactly on the legal end of things yet, but the media’s been digging for info on the new team. Look, if you say you don’t know us, I’ll respect that. Who all’s in right now?” 

“Hana, Junkrat, Roadhog, not sure if anyone else is in the cockpit. But Winston, Tracer, Torbjörn, and Mercy were here earlier.”

Lúcio stands and hefts the bag over his shoulder once more. “Well, once everyone’s back what do you say to having a chat with them? I’ll be your backup, make sure they don’t just dismiss you. How’s that sound?”

That sounds terrifying.

“That sounds like a plan. And Lúcio?”

“Yeah?”

  
“Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote 23 _pages_ of notes for upcoming chapters while I was away. 23 pages of bullet-point notes!
> 
> You guys are amazingly patient, thank you for your messages of encouragement and well-wishes over on Tumblr while I was gone.
> 
> Now to get caught up on comments I missed!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to preface this with a warning that I am terrible at writing large group scenes. You're warned. :o

The bass pulses through your very core and you gently sway back and forth in your seat, giving yourself to the rhythm. Even with your eyes closed you can feel the collective gaze on you as the rest of the team members trickle back over the course of the morning. Muffled greetings are exchanged. Tea is made. Conversations are had. Through it all, nobody bothers you as you wait for the entire team to return.

Hana had tried to catch your attention as soon as you re-entered the ship but Lúcio, ever quick on his feet, had diverted her. You had been tossed a pair of headphones as he tugged her off to the side, thoroughly distracting her with tales of his tour.

With Hana calmed and the Junkers occupying themselves (though you were nearly positive at the time that Roadhog was keeping Junkrat occupied more than anything), you had lost yourself in the music and settled down to think. Lúcio explained that an old friend of his would find shelter in music, when things got to be too much. You don’t believe for a second he was talking about anyone but you.

As the hours pass, the calming melodies help you to focus your thoughts as you try to figure out how to word your confrontation with the team. Do you go all-in and be blunt about it, or do you take the more diplomatic approach? Business, or casual? Quiet, or loud?

Will they hate you? Should they? You should have been firm from the start.

You crack open an eye as a blast of warm and humid air hits you. The final crewmember, a large pile of packaging concealing who at that height you can only assume is Torbjörn, stumbles into the ship to a chorus of laughter.

It’s time, you think, as Lúcio squeezes your knee reassuringly. Across the way you catch a raised eyebrow from Junkrat as you stand and hand the headphones back to your new friend. As if on cue, every voice in the ship goes silent as you clear your throat.

There’s a sudden tension in the air. They all know something is up. They’ve known for hours. They’ve known since your outburst the night before. You can tell. You can’t do this. They’re all going to hate-

“So,” Lúcio stretches in his seat and reclines somewhat, the only person in the dropship that seems relaxed. Is he putting on a show in an attempt to keep you calm? To anchor you? You aren’t ashamed to admit to yourself that it’s working. “We gotta talk, all. And by we, I mean she.” He jabs a thumb in your direction and his trademark smile falls somewhat. “I get that you’re all excited, really I do! I am too! But a huge part of being a team is open communication-”

“She don’t got to c’municate nothin’ if she don’t wanna,” Junkrat grumbles from the seat across from him. Lúcio sighs and rolls his eyes at the interruption. All the while, you stand in everyone’s view, feeling as though you’re in some kind of spotlight. Your palms feel clammy and you wipe them on your jeans.

“The problem Jamie, is that she _does_ want to communicate, and we are _not lettin’ her_.”

Roadhog bristles and his mask tilts ever-so-slightly more in your direction. Junkrat is less subtle, his face a twisted mass of confusion as he looks to you for confirmation. Mercy, in the back with Winston and Tracer, looks uncomfortable as she leans against the recreation table. Torbjörn’s concern is evident, but Hana? Hana looks like she’s been kicked.

This feels _wrong._

“I, uh.” Your tongue sticks uncomfortably to the roof of your mouth, dry and pasty. “I wanted to apologize first.” One thing at a time. Stay calm. You can do this. “For my outburst last night. I was tired and confused. Shit, I’m still tired and confused.” Mercy takes a step forward, but Lúcio and Roadhog both raise a hand to catch her attention and prevent an interruption. Bless them, because you aren’t sure if you’d be able to gather the courage to say this to the band of heroes otherwise, dream or no.

“I know you guys want to believe that I’m sick, or wrong, or something happened to me that is making me act this way. It’s brutally fucking obvious and I get it. Really, I get it! You just want your friend back. But I’ve said it before and I’ll say it a thousand times until you pull your heads out of your asses and listen to me: I do not know you. I mean, I know you by reputation, but I’ve never met you - any of you - before last night. Why do you think I keep saying I’m hallucinating?”

You can’t look at them. The panels on the floor of the dropship are polished bright and pull your gaze downwards. A pulsing, pounding roar fills your ears as you try to focus yourself. You can hear the creak of leather and a muffled croak. The sound of a spoon on ceramic.

“I was at home. I was having a nice, quiet goddamn day. And then all of a sudden I was being dragged through a warzone. And none of you… You all seem to think I’m someone I’m not. What am I supposed to do? Lie? Because I’m pretty sure it would come out the second you guys expected me to know pretty much anything.”

You scrub at your eyes with the heels of your palms, willing them to stop prickling. The silence drags on for a few moments uncomfortably before you lift your gaze to assess their reactions. Roadhog has a massive hand gripped over a rather ticked-looking Junkrat’s mouth, much to Lúcio’s amusement. Everyone else in the room seems preoccupied with looking anywhere but at you. There’s a definite air of guilt. Mercy rolls her shoulders back and straightens, taking on a professional air as she steps forward.

“Amnesia is not unheard of in cases such as these. If you would consent, we can-”

“Mercy.” Her approach halts as you say her name, bitter and frustrated. “If you think this is amnesia or something, you’re off. I remember everything up to the moment these boys-” You gesture to the junkers, “- pulled me out of that tank. I have never met you. I don’t belong here.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m passed out in a hospital somewhere because-” The slight mocking tone from the night before has crept back into your voice. You notice and actively try to level yourself again.

“Shit, it’s 2016.” You take a moment to spout off the date, prime minister, US president, and any other relevant information you can think of while their expressions shift from confusion to curiosity. Winston pulls a small tablet from a nearby shelf and motions to Mercy, who reads over his shoulder cautiously. The longer you talk, the wider her eyes go. Winston nods along every time you present a fact. The next ten minutes or so are filled with as much useless world-trivia as you can think of.

”I really don’t know enough about world politics to give you much else. From what I know about Overwatch, which by the way is a game where I’m from, you’re all about to think I’m fucking crazy because that date is about 60 years too early, yeah?”

“Kinda, yeah.” Hana crosses her arms as Mercy shoots her an icy glare. “What,” she hisses at the medic, rolling her eyes stubbornly. “Communication.” Winston and Tracer both, much to Mercy’s annoyance, chuckle quietly in response. This is going well, you decide. The gagged Junkrat seems to be the only one still staring at you for the time being, though you can’t really tell with Roadhog.

“Well you certainly seem to know your history intimately.” Winston taps off the tablet and places it on the table behind him, adjusting his glasses with a sigh. “I’m not dismissing your claims. But your assumption that you’re quite a number of years off is accurate.”

After a moment or two of pulling on Roadhog’s arm and getting nowhere, Junkrat finally goes limp in defeat and taps the giant’s wrist gently. In response, the hand lifts and the slight junker inhales greedily. He looks at you then, his eyes glimmering with some unspoken ideas and you can practically hear the cogs turning in his brain.

“So, I’ve got just one question- Oi, stop that ya big lug!” Junkrat dodges Roadhog’s attempt to grab him once again, and there’s a collective groan from the others as he darts forward and drops into a seat beside Lúcio and out of Roadhog’s reach.

“Stoppit, I’m dead serious right? Just gimmie a tick.”

He looks towards the ceiling for a moment in silence, eyes glazed and mouth open as his tongue pokes around a false gold tooth behind his canines. “Ah!” Whatever thought he’s searching for doesn’t take him too long to reach. He cracks his knuckles and snaps his fingers a few times to get Roadhog’s attention.

“Oi Roadie, ‘member the room?” Roadhog nods, albeit cautiously. Junkrat’s attention turns back to you. “Sheila, what color’s yer carpet?”

“Twiggy ‘dat is highly inappropriate!” Torbjörn bellows from across the room, but the oddness of the question has pulled your full attention to the junker.

“Wh-what?”

“Carpet! Y’know, stuff what goes on th’floor of ya unit and keeps shit soft t’ walk on.”

You open your mouth to answer, but Junkrat impatiently beats you to it, describing not only your carpet, but your entire living room in detail. You nod slowly, and your shock is not lost on him.

“But how the hell do you know that?”

“Got a good view on the telly when ya fell on yer face. Well fuck me sideways, mate.” Junkrat’s voice is low and dangerous, a sharp contrast to the mirthful shriek he’d spoken with just moments ago. Roadhog lifts himself from his seat and to his full height, digging in his pockets before producing a small, scuffed-up box. It’s the drive they’d been talking about last night, you’re pretty sure.

“Doc,” Mercy scurries forward to take the drive from him. “Said last night she was in a VR rig.” Mercy’s eyes go wide, her mouth caught in a silent ‘oh’ as she looks you up and down once again.

Wait, what? Your thought is echoed by Lúcio and Hana as they exchange a confused look. Junkrat slams his prosthetic fist into the wall behind him, emitting a growl of frustration. “That ain’t right. Can’t be. Fuckin’ bull. Pulled that shit me’self.”

You stumble back a few steps at the stares now boring holes into you, pulse increasing as you hit the stairs leading up to the Orca’s cockpit. There’s that look again. Like you’re an injured animal they’re afraid of startling. Your mind races, struggling to put together the pieces of what they’re implying.

And suddenly, everyone is talking over each other at once.

“Can you fix it, Doc?”

“What’s going on?”

“What’d I do?”

“Well, it’s not my area of expertise, but-”

“I know a thing or two about neural interfacing, Angela-”

“So what, she’s just-”

“Calm down, Lena-”

You don’t remember sitting down but Hana, Junkrat, and Lúcio are suddenly crouching around you, creating a wall between you and the commotion. Junkrat’s arm is around your shoulders, radiating a startling amount of warmth. You lean into it reflexively, the heat melting the tenseness around your neck.

“I’m so sorry. So sorry.” Hana is stubbornly scrubbing tears off her face. “I should have listened the first time instead of being stubborn.” Lúcio pats her shoulder reassuringly. “We’ll get you fixed. We’ll try. Mercy can fix anything, just look at Genji- Wait, do you know who Genji is?” She looks relieved when you nod.

Junkrat laughs and pulls you in closer, no grasp on the concept of personal space.

“We gotcha sheila.” The words are an echo, identical to the ones he uttered in comfort when you found yourself being ‘rescued’ from the facility.

Suddenly everything clicks into place, though there are still a number of gaps to fill. You run your hands through your hair, a nervous habit you can never quite shake, as you finally realize just what the team is implying:

You are very much awake.

Overwatch isn’t the hallucination.

**Your home was.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this protective trio of misfits. I love them. I love them so much.
> 
> So I've been struggling with this chapter all week, because it honestly feels so disjointed. A friend commented that it made her feel confused, but that in-context that was a good thing since the reader is still struggling to work out what the hell is going on in their own head. In her words: "If this were anything but a reader-insert I'd push you to rewrite, but Reader doesn't know what the heck is going on so why should I?" (She then went on to rant about how Torbjörn is a dirty old man to jump automatically to the gutter at Jamie's question.)
> 
> Next chapter we get out of this damn ship and I can write a different darn setting! Hooray!


	6. Chapter 6

“While I understand that you are very excited, this is not a Hollywood film. Pressuring her regarding events she has no memory of will only lead to frustration from both parties.” Winston had nodded along sagely as Mercy addressed the ship before takeoff, making it crystal clear that in no uncertain terms was anyone to bother you about what happened or attempt to jog your memory before you were admitted to her medical facilities in the watchpoint. 

Of course, the second takeoff was over and it was safe to leave your seats, Junkrat and Hana had pulled you over to the rec table and along with Lúcio they began to drill you on what you already “knew” about Overwatch. Mercy had protested at first, but Lúcio reassured her that he would personally assure your comfort. The doctor had simply sighed and resigned herself to joining Tracer and Winston in the cockpit.

And so, after nearly 10 hours of the mischievous trio monopolizing the kettle and sharing tales of their adventures (and pranks) both on and off-duty with Overwatch, you stand staring out the window and watching the world pass under you. The three friends are passed out on the recreation corner’s couch behind you in a rather uncomfortable-looking pile, snoring away as you fly through the night. A shimmering display in the corner of the window claims that it’s currently 11:00 PM wherever you are, and the lights of the world below glisten to match the stars above. 

It’s pretty. 

“Aye, I suppose you could say ‘dat.”

You jump halfway out of your skin as Torbjörn nudges your elbow out of the way to see what you’re looking at through the window. Apparently you’d spoken out loud. After a moment, he jabs his finger against the glass and elbows your side to draw your attention to it. 

“Not the big mass, see, but the small pointy bit ‘dere-” In the distance you see a small point of land jutting out and up, rising above a small city to create a point of punctuation at the end of a deep curve of lights. “‘Dat ‘dere’s Gibraltar. Could walk the whole darn country in a day, if ye were so inclined. Small, but proud.”

“Like you?” The joke is nearly instinctive, and you laugh quietly as he immediately jumps back from you as if he’s been burned. You lean on the window for support as he dramatically waves his claw-arm in mock offense. 

“‘Dat’s enough outta ye!” Despite his feigned seriousness, the grin peeking out from beneath his mustache completely betrays his amusement. The moment passes, laughter fading into a comfortable silence as he returns to peer out the window beside you again. 

“Not sure if you care much as ye are, but yer station’s still set up in ‘de verkshop.”

“Hmm?”

“Yer other gear’s in storage, but I didn’t ‘vant to…” The dwarf scratches at his nose idly for a moment. “Not a clue how to move yer setup anyway. Twiggy wanted to poke around yer projects, but Hog and I told him off. Threw a dust sheet down and left it at that. Anyvay,” he mutters, clearing his throat and flicking a speck of dust off his claw. “‘Ve should wake ‘dis lot. Nearly time to land. Athena,” he raises his voice slightly as he cautiously jabs Roadhog’s knee. The massive man grunts and swats the claw away in response.

“Of course, Torbjörn.” The level and robotic voice drifts through the ship as the lights slowly increase in brightness. You leave your post at the window and gently shake Hana’s shoulder to wake her as the ship starts to descend, your stomach fluttering at the gradual change in altitude. 

“Hana,” you mutter quietly so as not to startle her, “Hana we’re here, wake up.” The Korean mumbles something you can’t understand and curls into herself, shielding her face from the lights and falling immediately back into sleep. Adorable, but completely against what you’re trying to accomplish.

“Hana, come on. I can’t get to the other two unless you move.”

“No need f’that.” Junkrat has an eye cracked open, a grin plastered on his face as he shakes his head slightly. “She’ll move when she realizes her hair’s caught in me arm again.” He lifts his arm slowly to demonstrate, and sure enough a massive clump of dark hair is wedged between the metal. As soon as it pulls taut, Hana jerks awake and grabs for it with a squeak of surprise. 

“A-ya! No! Ow! OW!” Junkrat practically howls with laughter and struggles to hold his arm still while she hurriedly fiddles with the offending locks out of her vision. Lúcio startles awake on his other side, immediately moving to help the girl untangle herself from the junker’s appendage. 

You grip the table tightly, chest shaking with the effort not to laugh at the trio. This seems like it happens often. When Hana is finally free she reaches up and grabs a handful of Junkrat’s hair  and gives it a playful yank in revenge. “Oi!” He hollers as he climbs up and over the table to get away from her, knocking over the night’s mugs in the process and completely ruining your efforts to avoid laughing as Hana and Lúcio break into giggles. “I don’t have much’a that left! Uncle! White flag! Kindly fuck off!”

You’ve completely lost your breath laughing at this point while Junkrat practically throws himself into the seat beside Hog’s, hiding behind the behemoth who reaches over and cuffs him upside the head with a mutter of “idiot.”

An exhausted-looking Mercy wobbles her way down from the cockpit and into a seat, eyes barely open as she stifles a yawn. That yawn, of course, ripples through the ship to a chorus of “dammit”s and weak protesting. Holding back one of your own, you take another minute to study the group as Tracer mumbles over the intercom to make sure everyone is fastened. 

Aside from Torbjörn and Lúcio, everyone looks like they’ve been through hell. Sure most of the crew (junkers excluded) had managed to clean up after the earlier excitement, but there was still the occasional missed smear of gore or disheveled clothing and hair that destroyed any illusion that this had been a pleasant trip. Even Mercy had neglected to polish a particularly nasty streak of red from the headset she was now muttering into. 

“I’m bringing her in,” Tracer confirms over the PA as the entire ship lurches. Your stomach feels like it’s doing flips at the sudden vertical drop. “Chins up, looks like we’ve got a welcome party.” One final jostle and the dulled roar of the engines dies down, a sound you had gotten so used to you didn’t even notice it until it was gone. The silence after as everyone tiredly gathers their belongings seems louder than the ship ever was.

Mercy pauses in front of you as you watch everyone file out. Her eyes search yours for a moment before she sighs and smiles warmly. “I understand it is late, but it will be some time before you will be able to rest. There will be a debriefing, and the drones will need to prepare a room in the dormitories.” She extends a hand, and it takes you a moment to realize she’s offering to help you out of your seat. “Your physical and mental well-being is my top priority. Perhaps I can arrange for a hot meal and a decently lengthy shower while we are in the meeting?” 

Your stomach growling is the only response she needs as you take her hand and pull yourself up. The good doctor chuckles and gently places her other hand on your shoulder. “Chin up, as Lena says. Nobody will begrudge you any questions you need to ask.” You nod and the two of you step out of the ship together, squinting in the dim light to see who had come to the hangar to greet the ship.

“Holy shit.”

You can feel the strain on your cheeks as a grin splits your face practically in two. The team is clustered around an elderly pair, chattering on excitedly as you approach. An elderly woman and man in full combat gear, the pair are completely unmistakeable. Soldier: 76 turns his visor in your general direction the second you’re off the ramp, but Ana Amari is occupied by everyone talking over each other in an attempt to recount their mission.

Mercy touches your shoulder gently and gestures to the two. “Soldier: 76 and Ana. They joined the team on a consultation-basis shortly after your abduction. Ana is actually an Overwatch veteran. Soldier is… Complicated.” You can easily pick out the strain in her voice, but you nod and thank her politely. Ana notices your approach and turns to you with a smile so warm and comforting you almost expect her to offer you some freshly-baked cookies. It’s a stark contrast to Soldier’s emotionless glare. 

“Off you go now, it’s about time I meet this young woman you all speak so fondly of-” Ana lovingly shoos the group towards the base to a chorus of laughter. “We’ll be along shortly. Now then, you must be the agent Snare. It is a pleasure. Isn’t it, old Soldier?” She slaps Soldier: 76 on the back hard enough to break his stoic demeanor and he grunts in surprise. The greying man tilts his head in an almost-there nod and his visor flickers briefly. His stare, even though you cannot see his eyes, is disarming.

“Ana, Snare is experiencing some complications following her captivity, so I would ask that you refrain from-” 

“Yes Angela, Winston sent the information along. Come here dear, let me take a look at you.” Without waiting for an answer, Ana steps forward and grabs your chin, tilting your face to get a better look. She seems pleased at what she sees and the sudden movement grabs your attention from Soldier: 76.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Ms Amari,” you stammer as Ana checks you up and down for any injuries despite Mercy’s protests. She hmm’s and nods to herself after a few awkward moments and finally straightens with an approving smile. All the while, Soldier: 76 continues to stare at you silently. 

Shit, this man could give Roadhog a run for his money in the staring department. It’s decidedly creepy. Ana notices your nervous glance towards him and laughs loudly. 

“Just Ana will do. And don’t pay  _ him _ any mind. He’s just a grumpy old man, but his heart is large.” Ana turns away from you and jabs a finger into Soldier’s chest. He lets out an exasperated sigh and gently guides the offending digit elsewhere. She continues, “I’ll be waiting in the elevator. Greet the girl properly,” and with that she walks away with a wave over her shoulder.

Soldier softly brushes at the spot where Ana had poked him and takes a step forward.

“Ziegler.” Mercy nods to him and pats your arm gently before walking off to join Ana, leaving you alone with the Soldier. And then he does something completely unexpected, extending a hand stiffly.

You’re overcome with a spark of stubborn determination at the gesture, drowning out any nerves you had been experiencing previously. Without hesitation you grab his hand in a firm shake and it seems to be the correct response as his shoulders visibly lose some tension. 

“Don’t think a little memory loss will get you special treatment on this base. We’re short on resources and there’s no sense wasting them on a slacker.” His voice is measured and clipped, dripping with authority. The hand holding yours grips ever-so-slightly tighter. “That said, we’ll do our best to get you up and running again. You’re an asset to the team. I’ve seen footage of your performance in the field. Anything you need, you just ask and we’ll do our best to accommodate.” He finally releases his grip and shrugs his shoulders to adjust the rifle on his back. 

You feel relieved, in a way. Maybe it’s because you’re finally being introduced to someone without the expectation that you know them already. Maybe it’s because the big bad Jack Morrison is exactly how you’d expected he would be. Either way, the offer is uplifting. 

You smile and nod, peeking over his shoulder to where Mercy is waiting across the hangar. “Thank you Jack,” you mutter before dashing to catch up with Mercy as she holds the elevator doors open for you. 

A hot meal and a shower sounds like heaven right about now.

  
  


\-----

  
  


You don’t see Soldier: 76’s hand twitch towards his rifle as you run past him. As the elevator doors close he turns to stare at the brushed steel where you’d been standing a moment before. The hangar is silent, save for the rustle of Lena doing her walkaround of the ship.

In his vision, his visor relays your heart-rate, breathing, and body temperature scan data. No irregularities. No secrets or lies that he could pick up on without further analysis. 

He huffs and makes his way to the staircase doors, mumbling your words under his breath.

_ “Thank you, Jack.” _

Even Ana only uses that name in private company, to respect his wishes and privacy. 

Peculiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The entire exchange with Papa Torb wasn’t planned at all. This fic has a life of its own I swear to God.
> 
> WE ARE OUT. OF THE SHIP. I AM SO HAPPY RIGHT NOW.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, as usual! This chapter is a bit longer to make up for it. :) Welcome to Watchpoint: Gibraltar!

Once, when you pictured an Overwatch base in your mind’s eye, the concept brought to mind fluorescent lighting, bright ceramic, and brushed steel. Polished, futuristic elegance. 

Watchpoint: Gibraltar may once have featured all of those things, but as you walk through the echoing hallways with Mercy you are reminded more of dystopian sci-fi novels. The floor tiles are cracked and unpolished below the dimmed lighting. Above you, exposed wiring and pipes fill the hall with a faint smell of rust. The walls are unadorned save for the occasional black computer terminal, obviously quite a number of years newer than the aging facility. Odd cables snake along the ceiling, connecting the black boxes throughout.

“What happened here?” You pause to run your hand over a peculiar buckled section of wall that looks as though it might pop off at any moment. Mercy laughs quietly and knocks on it gently, and it creaks in response.

“Funding is less than ideal at this time. We have been working to restore the vital sections of the facility but it has left others wanting for repairs. This,” she chuckles softly and runs her fingers over the edge of the panel, “is the result of a rather excitable man misjudging the width of a hallway when firing a rocket-powered hammer.” Her eyes glaze over somewhat as she recalls happier times. A moment later she turns on her heel and continues forward, beckoning you to follow her. 

You have no idea where you are, but she takes each turn with practiced, familiar confidence. After what feels like forever you find yourself at a rather large set of double doors, painted and polished and standing in gleaming defiance of the aged hall before it. When you are in close proximity the doors slide open with a quiet hiss to reveal the mess hall. 

Even with dimmed lights, it is very clear that the cafeteria is in much better shape than the facility you’ve seen so far. Mercy leads you through the rows of long tables and benches to where an empty buffet is set into the wall, beneath which you can see a row of idle robots. 

“Hm, yes, I thought it might be too late. To the kitchens, then. Come along.”

You follow her through another door to a large kitchen, painted in warm browns and reds. She immediately busies herself with one of several refrigerators while you claim a stool around the large marble-topped island in the center of the room. Exhaustion tugs at the corners of your consciousness but you shove it aside, choosing to busy yourself with a bowl of assorted fruit in the center of the island.

She withdraws a foil-wrapped mass and sets it in one of the ovens, typing some instructions into a keypad on its front. The machine hums loudly as it comes to life, a warm glow visible through the glass. Returning to the fridge, she pauses a moment and stops to look at you over her shoulder. “I am sorry it is not more, but I must return to the others before they begin the debriefing. Is fruit juice still to your liking?” You nod and she pulls a small bottle from the fridge, setting it on the island beside you and pulling a clementine from the fruit bowl. She looks to the side, listening to something in her comm that you can’t hear, before sighing and muttering an “of course” into the device. 

As quiet as things have gotten in the past few hours, you feel much calmer. No hyper youths hogging your attention, no appraising eyes behind thick goggle lenses, no expectations to meet. 

“Thank you, Mercy.” You open the juice bottle carefully and take a sip, the cool liquid soothing a throat you hadn’t realized was sore and scratchy again. “I’m sorry that things aren’t what you expected.” 

The woman smiles sadly and shakes her head, placing a hand on yours and patting it gently. “There is no sense in apologizing for events out of your control. We expected to find nothing at all. No matter your condition, you were a welcome discovery. And you may call me Dr. Ziegler or Angela when we are not in the field, if you wish. Whichever you are most comfortable with.” 

You pull your hand back and fiddle with the juice bottle anxiously. Angela returns to peeling her clementine, the skin falling to the tabletop in one long, spiraling strand as she works it off the fruit. A few moments later, she holds the segments out to you and you take one, popping it into your mouth greedily and savouring the explosion of juice as you bite down. 

The doctor hums in approval and leaves half of the fruit behind as she walks to one of the black terminals you’ve seen peppering the hallways. 

“Athena will direct you to the showers, or your quarters, once you’ve eaten your fill. Simply activate the terminal like this,” she places her hand on the flat surface and the display above it flickers to life. “Athena is our resident AI. She has access to the entire facility and its workings. If you need anything, she is always nearby.”

“Do you require assistance, Doctor Ziegler? Or are you simply demonstrating my access terminals?” The display shimmers along with the unit’s inflections, sending a blue light pouring gently into the dim kitchen. 

“Agent Snare will be requiring direction shortly. Please ensure the projectors are functioning in the barracks, Athena.”

You blink and look on in wonder as a map fills the display, winding lines of red and green filling the hallways in an instant. “Systems are completely operational in the barracks, as well as surrounding areas. I am redirecting drones to prepare the quarters of Agent Snare. Your presence is requested in conference hall 2-C. Will that be all, Doctor Ziegler?”

Angela frowns at the terminal for a barely-there moment before voicing her approval. The display dies, leaving the kitchen lit only by the glow of the oven and the dim safety lights above the various appliances. From a cabinet containing what must be hundreds of place settings, she pulls a plate and places it next to the oven. 

“The debriefing shouldn’t take too long, but I must be on my way. Will you be alright on your own if I do not return before you finish?”

“I’ll be fine, I think. Some food, a shower, and I’m going to crash. You guys may have slept in the ship but I couldn’t manage it.” Your shoulders sag somewhat at the reminder and you struggle to stifle a yawn. “And thanks, Angie. For the food and stuff. And the rescue too, I guess.”

Her back to you, Angela pauses mid-movement (though at your thanks or the impromptu nickname you aren’t entirely sure.) Without turning to face you, she shakes her head slowly. “You are most welcome. I will retrieve you in the morning when breakfast is ready, and then I will escort you to Medical for a thorough examination.” And with that she walks out, leaving you in silence. 

As if on cue, the oven beeps to signal the completion of whatever instructions Angela had entered. A moment’s struggling with a nearby towel against the heat and you find yourself peeling back the foil to reveal a generous helping of some sort of leftover pasta dish. The contents are more vegetable than noodle, but they’re piping hot and filling and you’re just happy to be eating for the first time since this morning. When you finish, you wrap the foil neatly and place your dish near one of the sinks.

You place your palm on the scanner under Athena’s screen, and the AI flickers to life. 

“The mission debriefing has been postponed. You may choose to wait for Doctor Ziegler’s return or receive direction you to your quarters.” 

“Oh. Uh,” You examine the winding pathways on the map, many of which have been marked as inactive. “Angela mentioned there was a place I could grab a shower. Could I get directions there instead?” Immediately, a squiggling route is marked on the map in green and a soft projection appears on the floor leading to a far door.

“Shit that’s cool. Thanks, Athena.”

“Despite your casual use of profanity, the pleasure is mine agent.”

You barely manage to stifle a snort of laughter as you stammer an apology.

Navigating the base is easy with Athena guiding the way, the dark hallways softly illuminated by a strip of arrows projected from those strange black cables you noticed before. This part of the base seems to be in much better repair, obviously receiving regular maintenance and care. Eventually you enter what appears to be a living quarters of sorts as the cold institution-like hallways are abruptly replaced by open recreation rooms, lounges, and old-fashioned bulletin boards. One such board next to a large set of double doors proudly displays a rather cute hand-drawn poster depicting a group of people in shower caps and towels. The hologram directing you fades as you reach the entrance.

“Welp. I guess this is the place. Athena, are you still there?” A nearby terminal blinks to life and the AI’s warm tones drift through the hall.

“You have arrived at your destination. My terminals require physical interaction to activate, however so long as my processes are in active use I will be available for vocal interaction. Did you require further assistance, agent?”

“Do I just do the thing with this terminal when I’m done, for directions to my room? And are there like, towels and shit in here or do I need to grab some from somewhere?” 

“All necessary bathing implements and accessories are located in the showers for your convenience. Please do not hesitate to activate me once you have finished for guidance to your quarters.” The display abruptly powers down before you can get another word in, so you make your way through the large doors.

The brightness in the room blinds you for a moment, a painful reminder that you’ve been walking around half in the dark for the past... Hour? How long has it been since you landed? You reach into your pocket for a phone that isn’t there to check the time, a habit that will be hard to break. Maybe old-you (Overwatch you?) has a phone somewhere in her old stuff. You’ll have to ask later.

Your eyes adjust quickly, revealing a sweeping tiled room that almost resembles a gym’s public change room. The far wall is lined with alternating sections of counters and mirrors, stacks of towels, and lockers. To your right and left, wide stall doors and baskets frame the massive room. 

A peek inside a stall reveals they’re very deep and spacious, each including a large overhead shower and bench on the far end, as well as hooks to hold towels. Soap dispensers and a large glass panel with indications for water pressure, temperature, and other features decorate the walls. 

Oh yes, this will be  _ glorious _ . Overwatch doesn’t fuck around when it comes to personal hygiene.

If there is a world record for undressing, you may be the new holder. Clothes tossed into the basket and naked as the day you were born in the blink of an eye as you rush into the stall, flicking the lock and beginning your studies of high-tech futuristic (present-day?) shower controls. 

One experiment in temperature and pressure later and you find yourself sitting on the bench in the stall, a stream of perfect water melting away the tension in your shoulders.

Perfect. Bliss. Nothing will ever top this moment. You’ve eaten, you’re warm, you’re comfortable, and you’re alone. The soap and shampoo smell fantastic (not girly or chemical, just pleasant) and the time passes in a blur. Sure, the past day’s events drift in and out of your thoughts, but for once you just take the time to enjoy yourself and space out.

That is, until the panel on the wall starts beeping at you. A safety feature no doubt, as the display indicates that you’ve been sitting under the water for nearly an hour. You tap at the blinking pad absent-mindedly and the offending noise stops, but the spell has already been broken.

Reluctantly you turn the water off and wrap yourself in a towel burrito, gooseflesh creeping up your legs at the draft leaking from under the stall door. Patting as dry as you can manage, the towel is tucked securely around you and the door opened, only to show an empty basket next to the door.

Wait, what?

You stand there completely still as the complete lack of your clothes sitting where you put them dawns on you. 

“Whaaaat the fuck.”

You bolt from stall to stall, poking doors open and searching for the missing garments. How into that shower were you that you hadn’t heard someone making off with your damn clothes? You stop your dramatic upheaval of the towel stacks and take a deep breath.

Alright. It’s no big deal. You’re probably close enough to your room for it not to matter, and you’ve yet to run into anyone in the halls, so maybe you can just make a break for Athena’s terminal and get directions and nobody will be the wiser?

Peeking your head out the door and checking the hall, you creep to the black box as soon as you confirm the corridor is empty. The panel tingles your hand as it scans and Athena’s blue glow cuts the darkness as she comes online.

“Agent Snare, your quarters are located in the-”

“Actually Athena, do you know if my things have been brought out of storage yet?”

“Unfortunately your storage unit has yet to be accessed. Do you require any further assistance?”

“I’m not entirely sure how all this works. Do you know if D- er, if Hana is available to talk to?” You brush water out of your eyes as it drips from your scalp, tugging a corner of the towel up to dab at your forehead.

“One moment, please.” The pale blue glow is replaced with a static image of the MEKA pilot and after a moment of quiet beeping and dripping in the barren hallway, there is a soft click as the call connects.

“Yoboseyo!” Hana’s voice is just barely louder than the sound of gunfire and shouting in the background. Of course she’d still be playing video games after a god-knows-how-long flight home.

“H-hey, Hana? Someone’s made off with my clothes, and my stuff’s not out of storage yet. Could I borrow something to wear tonight?”

“OMG are you serious? Ugh, boys will be boys. I’ll bring a set over as soon as I’m done this match, that cool?”

“Thanks Hana, meet me at my room, I guess?”

“Yep sounds good- OH ARE YOU KIDDING ME I SPENT SO MUCH ON THAT UNIT YOU SON OF AN ELEKK-”

Flinching at the sudden shout, you cut the call and request directions to your room and start walking. It’s not a minute later that you realize your mistake: You ‘prolly could have just asked Hana to come to the showers instead of traipsing through the halls in nothing but a damp towel. Yep. It’s definitely late. Brain capacity compromised. Sleep required.

Your hopes of not running into anyone on your trek through the place are dashed as you turn a corner and nearly bowl over a willowy mass of metal and cloth. A squeak is muffled in your throat as you jump back from the figure in the dim hall, but as the omnic’s features register your alarm is immediately subdued. 

Clothed beneath a white robe and boldly-patterned reds and golds, Tekhartha Zenyatta is a rather intimidating sight as he stands before you. It’s difficult not to stare dumbly as you quickly take in the technological wonder that is the sentient robot. “My deepest apologies,” the voice that leaves the omnic is mechanical, yet warm. “It was not my intention to startle. Do you know of me?” 

Part of you thinks that’s an odd greeting, until you remember your condition.

“I mean, I know I  _ should _ know you, probably. You’re Zenyatta, Genji’s teacher.” You point towards his feet, and the statement leaves your mouth before you can even think: “You’re not… Floaty.”

The omnic hums gently, somehow managing to express both surprise and amusement despite his unmoving features. “No need, little spark. This is a place of contemplation, relaxation, and reflection. Even I feel the need to stretch my legs on occasion, hmm?” With a quiet chuckle, Zenyatta shrugs the robe off of his back and drapes the cool linen over your bare shoulders. 

The feeling reminds you of being covered with a sheet, cold and wet and shivering, but the smell of salt is banished as one of Zenyatta’s prayer orbs nudges your forehead distractingly. You start and look around, the eerie silence broken only by footsteps, both metal and damp feet on tile, and the gentle chime emitting from the ball in front of you. Zenyatta is walking alongside you as you- Wait, when did you start walking again?

“While it may seem an impossible task now, eventually you will come to accept that what occurred cannot be changed. When this happens, you may use the experience to shape yourself for the better. Until then, if you ever require a guided meditation or a friend’s ear, you may have mine.”

You can’t help but crack a smile at what you hope was an attempt at a joke. “You don’t have ears, Zenyatta.”

The omnic brings a hand in front of him and the offending orb leaves you to hover over his palm. “Such as it is. Your grounding presence has been sorely missed in this facility. There are some who have grown rather unruly in your absence.” He stops and you notice you’ve nearly walked past the door Athena was guiding you to. “I look forward to nurturing a friendship with you once again, little spark. Truly this is a unique opportunity. Though I must admit I did not anticipate our second first meeting being under these circumstances.”

You try to ignore your burning ears and tug your towel a little tighter around yourself as you reach for the door’s access. Athena’s projection fizzles the moment you touch the panel. Sliding the robe off your shoulders and handing it back to its owner, you let out a tired sigh. 

“Thanks, Zenyatta. Enjoy your early morning stroll.”

“Sleep well, new-again friend.”

As the door slides shut behind you and you fumble with a lightswitch, you tug the towel off and pat at your still-dripping hair. Remembering to close your eyes against the sudden light this time, you open them slowly to reveal a small yet charming bedroom. There is a faint smell of dust but the simple bed has fresh linens, the floor has several rugs strewn here and there to cover the cold tile, and the small desk and wardrobe are free of any creepy crawlies.

You flick on a bedside reading lamp and turn off the overheads as you explore, poking in and out of empty drawers and the tiny attached washroom. You’re about to flop down onto the bed when the door buzzes obnoxiously. “Coming,” you shout as you wrap the towel around yourself once more and press the button to open the door. “I really appreciate this Hana, I-” 

A folded bundle is shoved in your face, the portuguese phrase printed on top catching your eye immediately. “Oh! My stuff! How did you find… Them…?” You trail off as a beet-red Junkrat holds a second bag out towards you, pointedly looking at the ceiling. Your surprise stuns you into silence, and he scrambles to fill the awkward void.

“Damn cleaning bots can’t get nothin’ right, ya know. Er. HEREYAGO!” He risks a glance at your expression and jiggles the bag as he holds it out to you just as a pink-clad arm shoots out from out of your vision to smack him in the side. As Junkrat flinches away, a laughing Hana comes into view and sets down a third package of clothing.

“That’s BS and you know it, Junk-boy.”

He grimaces and rubs his side idly for a moment.

“Alright, it weren’t the bots. Just a harmless prank, ya know? I weren’t expectin’ ya to just walk through the damn base stark fuckin’ naked!”

Hana stops laughing instantly. “What do you mean?”

Junkrat drops the bag of clothes and gestures to you with both hands as if to illustrate his point. “I mean she had to get back here from the showers somehow!”

Hana’s double-take is downright comical and you burst out laughing much to Junkrat’s surprise. You have to hold the doorframe to steady yourself as your towel-clad appearance sinks in and Hana slowly raises a hand to cover her open mouth, eyes wide with shock.

“That’s even worse, you idiot!” She swiftly turns on her heel and starts walking away before calling over her shoulder: “I am  _ so _ telling ‘Hog!” 

“What? Oi! No ye ain’t! He ain’t me mum!” Hana’s brisk walk turns into a jog as she looks over her shoulder, tongue out and taunting the junker. “Oi! Pipsqueak!  **OI!** ” 

You remain in the doorway, laughing your half-naked ass off and completely forgotten as Junkrat hobbles after Hana, nearly tripping over his peg in the process. You wipe tears from your face and gulp down your laughter as you gather up the bags of clothing and shut the door, instantly silencing the ruckus outside.

Pranks. They pull  _ pranks _ . Oh man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zenyatta returns from his walk just as Genji wakes from his rest cycle. The cyborg notices his teacher's thoughtful body language and offers a seat next to him, and Zenyatta takes him up on the offer.
> 
> "Is something troubling you, master?" 
> 
> "Genji," Zenyatta sounds distressed. His student leans in closer, desperately wondering what horrible events could have bought his serene teacher so off-balance.
> 
> "I have no ears, Genji."
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> _[GENJI.EXE HAS CRASHED]_  
>  **


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all had an amazing holiday! This chapter was delayed for a very good reason: I got you something! I had to wait to publish this extra-extra-EXTRA-length chapter until the gift was completed. You’ll find it at the end, but please don’t skip ahead. :) Read as normal, and I’ll see you on the other side!

Sleep is good.

You hug the pillow to your chest and try, oh how you try, to hang on to the first proper in-a-damn-bed night of rest you’ve had since this whole crazy thing began. It makes sense, you think, that your subconscious wouldn’t be too fond of staying asleep any longer than necessary after whatever it’s been put through this past year. Your conscious mind, however, wants to tell it to fuck off and give you five more minutes.

You choose instead to throw your pillow across the room. You groan and turn on the bedside lamp before rummaging through the bags of clothes Hana and ‘Rat dropped off last night, searching for anything more suitable to wear outside your room than the underwear you’ve slept in.

The digital clock on the dresser reads 8:23 AM. Not ungodly early, but early enough that you regret taking the time for that shower last night. And most definitely early enough that breakfast and some manner of caffeine are necessary. Pulling on a pair of jeans and the first shirt you find, you stretch and open your door to greet the morning. Nothing greets you in return, the halls as empty as the night before (albeit brighter, now that the lights are on). There’s the sound of a television from somewhere distant, echoing eerily through the corridor as you call Athena for instructions back to the kitchens.

The mess hall is actually busy, small droids humming back and forth between the kitchens and the buffet against the wall as men and women in varying states of dress crowd them with plates piled high. The sight surprises you, eyes flicking around the room as you take in the sheer number of what you can only assume are other agents. You do a quick, rough headcount, and lose track in the high fifties. Your senses are bombarded at the sensation of so many languages being spoken at once around you.

This isn’t how the story is supposed to go. What happened to the small group of unsanctioned heroes, fighting for legitimacy while they covertly work against terrorism and to better the world?

“We’ve done some expanding since you’ve left,” Lena quips from a nearby table as she waves you over, cradling a cup of tea over her breakfast as if her life depended on it. “You look a bit overwhelmed, love! How’d you sleep?”

“Well enough, I guess. What’s all this?” You gesture to the full mess hall, taking note of a few groups of tables whispering amongst each other and glancing toward you excitedly. Most of these people couldn't even pass for 30 years old. It feels like highschool all over again.

“The Overwatch generation.” Lena smiles fondly as she takes in the room herself. “Once word got out that there’d been a recall, they started trickling in. Most of ‘em grew up on stories of the old Overwatch heroes. Not as cynical as their folks, see? They want to see the good in the world, Petras Act be damned. They show up at the gates with a travel bag and a prayer that the watchpoint is as operational as the rumors claim. Poor Winston doesn’t have the heart to turn any of them away, s’long as they’ve got the skills to help out somewhere on base.”

Lena sips at her tea and shuffles over, making room for you on the bench.

“Most all of ‘em don’t see fieldwork, of course. Can’t be putting the civvies in jeopardy. Engineers, mechanics, a few vigilantes here and there. All volunteers, too. Can’t officially have agents on the payroll, see. We’re skirting the Petras Act as it is taking on the merc jobs we do to fund the fight against Talon and other such baddies.” She pushes her plate, seemingly untouched, over to you and passes you a fork. “We field agents try to keep things as even as we can around here. The volunteers have full access to the training facilities, and a few have even made it up to the point they come with us as support on the bigger jobs.

“That bloke over there? He came to us as an _accountant_ four months ago, spent all his savings to make the trip from Myanmar. Now he’s been on two separate Talon intel missions. Turns out he’s one hell of a shot with a rifle.”

You pop a bite of breakfast into your mouth as you take in her lecture. Lena’s eyes are bright as she rambles on, looking proud as a mother hen.

“Mind you use a proper code name if it’s requested, though. Anonymity is everyone’s right here. Many of these blokes gave up their lives for what’s still technically an illegal cause. It’s the least we can do to respect that. Not that I care, personally. You can call me whatever you please, so long as it’s not crude.”

You roll your eyes and chuckle as she finally goes silent. The practiced air of the speech is almost too much. “So how many times have you had to give that introduction to the new recruits?” Lena pauses and makes a show of wiggling her finger in time as she counts the heads in the mess hall, to the laughter of everyone close enough to listen in on your conversation. Someone down the table pipes up that the bit about “the Auditor” is new, which only serves to renew everyone’s mirth.

“Brekkie is pretty much the only time you’ll see so many folks at once, really. Everyone clears out around nine to head off to their tasks and assignments. Some don’t bother coming in at all. Suppose they prefer their privacy. Speaking of,” she raises an eyebrow and drains the rest of her tea, looking back over her shoulder at something behind you. You whip around with a full mouth to see Soldier: 76 not a foot away, glaring down at you with that visor of his.

“What brings the old vet’ran to the mess, eh? They’re just putting a new platter of bacon out if you’re quick, Soldier.”

“That won’t be necessary. Thanks, though.” The rough edge of his voice is all but gone when he addresses Lena, but you can’t help noticing that the general area around you has cleared with Soldier’s presence.

“You.”

You pause with a fork-full of eggs halfway to your face.

“You’re coming with me. And before you say it, I’ve already spoken to Angela. She’ll come to collect you later.” Crossing his arms impatiently, his commanding presence makes it very clear that it is not a request. You place the fork down with a longing glance toward the hash browns and rise, muttering a quick apology to Lena.

“Give it your best, love. We’re rootin’ for ya.” Her smile looks thoroughly apologetic, leading you to wonder just what it is Soldier: 76 has in store for you.

\-----

The old man is silent as you wind through the corridors, passing the occasional person who seems either intimidated or awed at his presence. Some even mutter a quick hello as you pass, offering warm smiles in return for your friendly wave in greeting.

Where he leads you is honestly surprising. A small-ish workout room nestled in between two dormitory wings, full of cardio equipment which all seems to harbor a fine layer of dust. Completely out of place on the far wall is a small table housing what looks like some type of gaming console. That is where Soldier stands now, arms crossed, fingers drumming against his arms impatiently.

“So what’s this all about, Jack?” You cringe inwardly at the state of some of the equipment surrounding you. Many of the machines seem to have been shoved against the walls, away from the table with the device. The tapping sound of fingers on leather stops as the man in front of you freezes.

“Soldier will do.” His voice sounds careful, every syllable carefully constructed and dripping with expended patience. “You have a bad habit of calling out old ghosts, for a kid with no memories.”

Your face grows warm in embarrassment as you catch your mistake. You raise your hands defensively, stammering out an apology as he cuts you off.

“Just stop. I didn’t bring you here for a lecture. Hana brought something to my attention last night and wasn’t available to bring you here herself.” He beckons you over and fiddles with the machine on the table, grumbling to himself quietly as you approach. “I fully intended to throw you straight into training as soon as Angela cleared you. The kid told me you had your own damn room and it piqued my interest. Though she thinks this thing might jog your memory, I’m more interested in the fact that everyone seemingly let you have this room to yourself because of it.”

The old Soldier taps a button next to the display and it flickers on as four small drones float off to the corners of the room. A small loading bar progresses and as you watch, an 8-bit figure in a cape and mask walks on-screen and addresses you.

“Welcome! I am Rev,” the voice emitting from the small display begins as the drones hum above you. It is very obviously synthesized; cold and mechanical, unlike Athena’s.

“Rev? Like an engine?”

“Error. Unsupported query. Welcome! I am Rev, I manage access to the music-enhanced reflex training simulation.”

“What does that mean?”

“Error. Unsupported query. Welcome! I am Rev-” You turn to Soldier: 76 and raise an eyebrow quizzically as the little sprite repeats its introduction for the third time.

“It’s not an AI,” Soldier huffs as he makes his way to the door, turning to lean against the wall to observe you. “It can’t think. Just give it instructions, apparently.”

“Oh.” Turning back to the display, you think on how to speak to a something voice activated. Pronouncing your vowels as clearly as possible, you speak a command: “Rev, _about_?” The sprite on the screen does a little twirl and the synthesized voice chirps in response as text flows across the screen.

“I am Revolution, Rev for short, a simple program written to replace this specific simulation unit’s base user interface. Voice pattern recognized. Welcome, agent Snare! Loading profile… Quick-play enabled. No external media connected. Use default media?”

“Oh! Uh, yes?”

“Media loaded. Scanning environment.” You jump in surprise as the four drones begin flitting around the room rapidly, projecting a thin grid onto the floor and holographic boxes over the equipment and other obstacles in the room. The small squares where your feet touch the ground are bathed in blue light. You look over to Soldier: 76 who just shrugs in response.

“Warning: Enhancements not present. Jumps disabled. Speed lowered. Level 16, stage start!”

Upbeat music fills the room as large red blocks rapidly appear and disappear around you, accompanied by sweeping yellow beams. A loud buzzer sounds any time one of them comes into contact with you. Only a few seconds in and the music stops, the entire room bathed in red.

“Stage failed.” The synthetic voice almost sounds sad. “Lower difficulty?”

Wait, is this some sort of game? What command might get you instructions? “How to play?” You take a guess, leaning against the table and poking at the console. It seems to do the trick, as the sprite fades away and is replaced by a pixelated animation.

“Use your environment and your wits to evade-” The sprite on-screen spins away from a red block. “To capture-” The sprite steps rather deliberately onto a blue object, which turns green and fades away. “And to hide.” Finally, the sprite ducks behind a grey block to dodge a sweeping yellow light. You hear a hum of approval from behind you as Soldier takes in the instructions as well.

“Well that doesn’t seem so bad,” you mutter to nobody in particular. “It’s like DDR and laser tag had a baby.”

“A what now?”

“Nothing, nothing! Rev, start a new game, level one.”

The machine chirps a confirmation and the room is bathed in holograms once again. As the music ramps up from a slow introduction, you notice that the floor turns red a moment before the obstacles spawn in. You duck and weave through them with all the grace of a crippled cat, trying to make your way to the blue spots before they disappear. Simple in concept, exhausting in execution.

It isn’t long before a new song begins and the speed increases slightly, much to your dismay. It isn’t terribly clear over the music, but you think you hear a word or two of encouragement from Soldier: 76 as the music ramps up and you dodge a particularly nasty combination.

You try to focus on the music.

The slow, droning beat gives way to a subtle melody underneath, the music more a hint as to the movement of the hazards than the red pulse is. The more you slip into the music, the easier it is to follow the movement of the game, your body moving on its own as you weave through the sea of red, footwork increasingly deft. Your arms flow beside you to aid your balance where necessary, closer to a dance than a challenge of reflexes and stamina.

As the speed increases, so too does the difficulty. The shapes become more organic and less boxy, leading you into situations where you have no choice but to climb up and over the equipment in the room. Exercise bikes provide shelter from seeking lights, and treadmills are a welcome step up when a group of clustered blocks threatens to completely box you in.

You aren’t aware of how much time has passed by the time you accumulate enough hits for the match to end. Your muscles are burning, your chest aches, and there’s a sharp pain shooting up your heels every time you take a step. Everything hurts all of a sudden and at this point you just can’t be assed to continue as you throw yourself dramatically into a cluster of oddly-shaped red blobs.

“Stage failed. Difficulty level 12.”

“I’ve seen enough,” Soldier grunts as he shoves his way through a small collection of people assembled around the door. You hear a few unmistakable whoops and hollers from Lúcio and Junkrat among them and despite your exhaustion, or perhaps because of it, you give a rather dramatic flourish and bow deeply before collapsing to the mats and raising a thumbs-up to the assembled spectators.

This, of course, causes them to yell even louder.

“P-power down, Rev. I’m… I’m done.” Your chest heaves as you lay there on the floor catching your breath. The clock claims you’ve been at this for damn-near two hours. From the fire in your lungs and the dry tightness in your throat you can believe that.

Something cool and hard plops itself onto your forehead and you crack an eye open to see a rather amused-looking Hana holding a water bottle to your head, Lúcio and the Rat behind her with equally large toothy grins. Outside the room, frustrated exclamations announce Angela’s presence as she attempts to disperse the crowd of distracted volunteers.

Before she can even ask, you give Hana a sad smile and shake your head. You don’t remember anything, and you aren’t entirely sure how this was supposed to jog your memory in the first place. She shakes hers in return and pulls you into a tight hug as you attempt to take a swig of water.

“They didn’t take it away!” She pulls a bit tighter and then releases you, her eyes glimmering with some defiant spark. “You’ve still got it. Gone for a year and you come back at a twelve. What is this sorcery?”

“Heck, if she can pull that out the gate I’d hate to see her at the top of her game again. Or with help.” Lúcio claps a hand down on your shoulder and laughs. Junkrat nudges him and winks.

“I dunno mate, I wouldn’t mind seein’ ‘er modded again, eh?”

“That’s _nasty_ , man.” Lúcio wrinkles his nose and playfully shoves Junkrat away. The junker argues the validity of his opinion loudly (much to your confusion) as Angela swoops in to the rescue. The four of you go silent as she taps a tablet with a nail impatiently. Once she deems the lot of you to be sufficiently calm, she shakes her head and frowns.

“Please do try to hydrate at frequent intervals while you train. 76 knows better, he should have reminded you. We will be having words.” She looks at her tablet and taps at it for a moment before continuing. “Your belongings have been brought up from storage. They are in your room. I would prefer you go through them without outside interference.” The glance she throws toward the trio is less than subtle.

Hana and Lúcio scramble to their feet muttering something about lunch while Junkrat exclaims that he has some mines to prepare for his stock. He throws you a wink before he dashes off after the other two.

Angela sighs and swipes a stray lock of hair out of her face, shaking her head slowly.

“My apologies for the unexpected workout. I was not informed that the activity 76 had planned for you was so… strenuous. We will have words about that as well.”

“Don’t worry about it Angie, I actually had a lot of fun. Kind of embarrassed about all those people watching me like that though.”

“That may be,” The doctor’s lips press into a firm line, her irritation evident. “It does not change the fact that I have not cleared you for training yet. Even if that training is a game, it was still done against my orders. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I get it. I’ll go easier on it next time, okay? And a lot more water, I promise.” You smile warmly and Angela’s frown melts away.

“You and your promises,” The woman laughs softly, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. At the door to your room she pauses a moment before shaking her head. “The more fragile box has been placed on your bed. Forgive the graffiti. It became a bit of a tradition after your abduction.” The door hisses open and she turns to leave. “I’ll be returning later. You are still due an examination. Good luck unpacking.”

You wave at her back and enter your room.

The first thing you notice is that the once bare and boring living space is now cluttered with wooden crates of varying sizes, most of which have been doodled on mercilessly in varying colors of marker. Illustrated rabbits, frogs, contemplative pigs, and maniacal smiley faces stare you down as you weave through the boxes, the occasional block of text catching your eye as you make your way to the bed. Well-wishes, updates, and letters. All dated over the course of a year. All addressed to you.

_“See you when you get back! <3”_

_“We’ll stay positive. Stay safe, girl. -Lúcio”_

_“I wish to join in on this tradition. We await your inevitable return with bated breath. Sincerely, Tekhartha Zenyatta.”_ (You can’t help but laugh at this one. Does Zenyatta realize that when he uses those phrases it’s incredibly ironic? You make a mental note to remind the omnic that he does not, in fact, have breath to hold.)

You can barely see the surface below the ink on the first few crates, but the deeper you go the more sparse the writing. Positive well-wishings are replaced by desperate requests and angered ranting.

_“We miss you.”_

_“Been a few months now, get your butt back here already! -L”_

_“gonna find evry last 1 and blow em sky high!!”_ Followed immediately by: _“16 dead Talon today. Can’t take credit. Rat was mad. Got a lead at least.”_

A particularly cursive note on one of the final crates draws your attention: _“We deactivated Rev today. Hana broke down crying when it asked if she wanted to overwrite your profile for being inactive. We thought putting it on an indefinite standby was for the best. Wishing you well, Angela.”_

Only the messages from Zenyatta and ‘Hog stay positive throughout. The others bounce between hope and resignation. By the time you reach the bed, your cheeks are damp and your hands are shaking. In something as simple as writing on a few packed boxes, there is a chronicle of these people’s hope flickering and fading.

You remember Lúcio’s words at the airport, that Talon had taunted them after they took you. That it contributed both to their anger and their hope simultaneously. You can’t imagine that horror.

Taking a deep breath, you pull your attention to the moderately large box on the bedspread. No text adorns the box itself, but instead it is thoroughly taped shut with two sticky notes tacked to the side. It’s heavier than it looks as you sit and pull it onto your lap, pulling the first note off to read it.

_God Jul! That’s “Merry Christmas” if you didn’t know._

Christmas, huh? You let out a low whistle and shake your head. This must have been written months ago, too.

_If the seal on this box has been broken, the beanpole couldn’t keep his grubby paws to himself. Be sure to check the parts thoroughly before you equip if that’s the case. Nanotech is a bit fiddly for my liking but the bots should hibernate properly once the solar’s cut off. My eldest managed to color-match that darned blue you’re so fond of so we repaired your jacket. Brigitte helped._

_Whenever you read this, and you will, welcome back. The workshop just isn’t the same without your smile._

_\- Torbjörn_

“Oh my god that’s so fucking sweet what the hell- wait, Torb has kids?” You re-read the note again to be sure. “Huh.” Get it, Torbjörn. Good for him. You place the paper aside and pick up the second, immediately recognizing the chicken scratch that is Junkrat’s printing.

_‘grubby paw’ aint mesing wth shit!_

_i was jus lookin_

_if the seel on this box is broke it werent fuckin me_

_happy crismas ya old dwerfy fuck_

You let out a rather unladylike snort and place Junkrat’s note with Torb’s, picking at the edge of the tape sealing the box with your thumbnail until it’s loose enough to get a grip and yank. Underneath the first layer of tape is a second, already broken and torn. Of course.

Broken seals, indeed. You realize why as you open the box and a photograph slips loose from the lid, smudged with soot around the edges but otherwise clear. In it, Junkrat and Roadhog are walking with a third figure - some sort of omnic in clothes, it looks like - through what appears to be the hangar in the watchpoint. The junkers are covered in soot and grime, a stark contrast to the polished dome of the bot. Considering their company, the two look happy.

Putting the photo aside, you pull away a layer of packing foam to reveal a bundle of heavy black cloth accented with a painfully bright electric blue, shaking them free to reveal the same vest, cargo shorts, and sandals worn by the bot in the photograph.

Huh.

Under another thin layer of stiff foam, what seems to be the true source of the package’s weight is revealed. Carefully packed in the next compartment is a set of strangely-shaped plates that are such a pure white they almost seem to glow. You test the weight of one in your palm, surprised that something so hard-looking is actually somewhat malleable, bending and re-forming itself as you toy with it. Closer examination reveals that each has a letter-number code engraved on the back. You take a moment to lay them out beside you in order, thinking that they are likely important to whatever is contained in the compartment below them.

Another layer, another surprise.

Staring back at you is your own face, the reflection warped in the polished blue glass dome of a helmet nestled in a bed of shimmering black cloth along with some sort of bulky wrist brace in that same stark-white material. Realization dawns on you as you scramble for the photograph from before, comparing the contents and coming to the conclusion that the figure in the photograph is not an omnic, but rather a person in armor. _This_ armor, to be exact.

“Woah.”

That’s you.

It has to be you.

If this armor is yours, then the person in that photograph _has_ to be you, right? They look so _confident_ , their back straight and standing tall. Well, as tall as they can be, flanked by the junkers like that.

You hurriedly pull the helmet and brace from the box, placing them carefully next to the plates and tugging the mass of shiny black fabric out after it. Shockingly, it doesn’t seem to be cloth after all. The material is thicker, composed of tiny black segments that feel almost like cool glass scales to the touch. You toss the empty box aside and stand, tugging the suit this way and that on the bed in an attempt to find out which way is ‘up’.

Small clips interrupt the smooth surface here and there, each with a letter-number code matching those on the white plates. As you encounter them, you pull the corresponding plate from the pile and place it nearby.

A head, four located limbs and three snazzy-looking zippers later, the glittering black mass on your bed somewhat resembles a person. You glance between the photograph and the parts littered about, a slight fluttering growing in your stomach as you mentally piece them together. Will it fit you? Should you put it on? You aren’t a member of Overwatch, not really.

You should wait.

You should _totally_ wait.

“Oh, fuck it.” You shimmy out of your jeans and pull your shirt over your head, fully embracing your curiosity as you scramble to figure out how to start fitting yourself into the suit. “This is cool as hell.”

The photograph slides to the floor, forgotten for the time being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know a lot of you are fans of the Retirement comic on Tumblr by Pig Demon. For those of you unaware, it’s a comic about Junkrat and Roadie set in the far future, after the events of Overwatch, where they have retired to a cabin in the middle of nowhere. It is insanely popular with the Junker side of the fandom, with damnear 40,000+ views between the pages. If you haven’t read it, here’s a link: [Retirement.](http://pigdemonart.tumblr.com/tagged/retirement-comic/chrono)
> 
> As a Christmas gift to you all, I commissioned the artist of that comic to draw us with our boys. Consider this also to be the official reveal of the design for Snare’s armor. I also have a reference sheet set up with the armor’s design in detail if any of you would like to draw it for yourselves, and that reference will be linked with every chapter from this point on. 
> 
> (If you’re the sort to ask for permission to draw anything from the fic, this is it! Draw away, just link me so I can see after!)
> 
> The suit was designed with the self-insert status of the character in mind, obscuring any identifying features while in combat, but still allowing easy helmet removal for those of you who want a more personal touch. I’ve been sketching it on different body types, big and small, male and female, for weeks to make sure that the design can work on most body types.
> 
> You won’t get to know the specifics of the suit’s capabilities until later, but for now, you at least know what it looks like! See y’all next week! Probably! Maybe! (I hope so!)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [WE. HAVE. FAN ART. And it is AMAZING?!](http://faranaelit.tumblr.com/tagged/WYSArt) Also check out the endnotes for a full suit reference image! :)
> 
> A shorter chapter today, but only because I had to split this one in two. The next is already prepped for posting. ;) For once y'all won't have to wait weeks for an update!

You’ve apparently lost weight, you think to yourself as you slide your arms and legs through the fabric. The limbs fit perfectly in length, but feel as though they were designed with more muscle in mind. You wiggle your fingers and toes inside, the scaled surface lined with a soft material that reminds you of old, really well-worn t-shirts.

Cables and plugs disrupt the scales’ pattern here and there, one massive cable looping out and back into the suit at the back of the neck, but there is no visible fastener there that you can see. Despite the zippers on the back, there seems to be no way to fit your head through the neck. 

Chewing your lip in thought for a moment, you give the material a gentle tug over your head and, to your surprise, it pulls over like a turtleneck would. The material hugs your head, skin-tight over your hair and down your jawline like a diver’s suit. Your ears poke through holes in the sides and your hair is tugging this way and that uncomfortably, despite your best efforts to fix it. The scales snap back to their initial position around your neck, hugging the skin tight without being uncomfortable. 

“Convenient! Now, how do I reach those zippers? Do I have this thing on backwards?”

You move closer to the lamp, holding the photograph up to examine it closer. As the fabric adjusts to your body temperature, you feel a slight tug up the back of your leg. Spinning around at a speed that would even make Lena jealous, you quickly swat at the offending tickle only to find that it isn’t an insect or an itch; The seam is slowly closing itself as the scales surrounding it grow warm. In fact, the heat becomes almost uncomfortable as each tiny scale on the suit begins to hum at a barely-audible level. 

You can feel the panic rising in your chest: You are currently wearing an advanced piece of technology you have no experience with that may or may not be about to explode or something. 

It’s cool. This shit happens, right?

_ Right? _

“Fuuuuuck,” you whimper as the suit tightens around you, your limbs stiffening uncomfortably as the material tugs your parts this way and that with a strength you can’t fight against. All you can do is attempt to keep your balance as any ill-fitting limbs adjust themselves, the reflective segments shifting this way and that to accommodate your size. Immediately afterwards the humming stops, the suit having sealed itself and the scales going dormant. You gently test your arms and find you have free movement again.

Weaving between crates towards the washroom, you turn and stretch as best you can to view yourself in the mirror. The light from the overhead sparkles as it reflects off the suit, interrupted here and there by the wires and clips. As fas as you can tell, the suit won’t be exploding today. It also doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Who designed this shit, Brazzers?

You side-eye the parts strewn on the bed in the next room, the bright blue and white helmet drawing your eye. Retrieving it and studying it under the brighter lights in the bathroom, the shape reminds you of a fancy motorcycle helmet. The discovery as you tinker that that glass visor lifts up on a hinge only cements the relation in your mind as you pull the snug-fitting article over your head and tug the visor back down. 

You look like a member of Daft Punk. Are they even a thing any more? You giggle to yourself as you examine your reflection closer in the mirror, tilting your head to look through the heavily tinted glass at different angles. That blue will definitely take getting used to. You notice a wire poking out of either side of the helmet that seems to coincide with small plugs on your neck and press them gently into place with a soft clicking noise. 

The second the final wire is in place, there is a searing hot pain on the back of your neck and you jump, hands flying to the offending spot only to find that a massive cable is in the way.

“Ow?! OW. Mother  **_fucker!_ ** ”

You tug at the cable, trying to pull the material away from your skin. You can feel the slight shifting as the scales activate and tense, resisting your pull. The heat fades nearly immediately, but the back of your neck is throbbing and in pain as you dance around trying to tug the material away from your skin, fingers digging at where you know there were zippers not five minutes ago. Tears stream down your face from the pain. 

“Cock sucking son of a mother fuck! Ow!” You growl as the material tenses continuously to thwart your attempts at removing it. “No! Get off! Fuck!”

You are so busy attempting to remove the suit that it takes you a good minute to realize that you now have a heads-up display shining on the inside of your helmet.

SHIELDS : 100%

The line of text only catches your eye because it keeps flashing between 99% and 100% each time you try to force the scales on the back of your leg apart. A tiny animated sprite sits in the corner of your vision, drawing attention to a massive list of error text flooding the side of the glass. When it registers that there is more text displayed on the inside of the helmet, you try to bite back the pain long enough to look around for some hint as to how to get this fucking thing off. 

 

POWER : 001% - SOLAR ONLINE // CHARGING . . . 

SHIELDS : 100%

TEMP : 21 °C EXT //  37 °C INT

 

L O A D I N G . . .

 

BCI : ONLINE

REV AI : STANDBY

ERROR! WEAPONS MODULE DISCONNECTED!

ERROR! COMMUNICATIONS OFFLINE!

ERROR! GPS OFFLINE!

WARNING : H-L DEFENSE MODULE A-01 COMPROMISED OR MISSING!

WARNING : H-L DEFENSE MODULE A-02 COMPROMISED OR MISSING!

WARNING : H-L DEFENSE MODULE A-03 COMPROMISED OR MISSING!

WARNING : H-L DEFENSE MODULE A-04 COMPROMISED OR MISSING!

WARNING : H-L DEFENSE MODULE B-01 COMPROMISED OR MISSING!

. . .  

 

The list of errors goes down below your field of vision, but to your surprise scrolls as you look towards the bottom. You look up and down, testing the display. Sure enough, it seems to be tracking your vision somehow and responding accordingly. 

“Alright, I admit that’s pretty cool.” Your fingers idly play along the base of your skull where the cable snakes out of the suit since they can’t reach the source of your pain. “You know what’s not cool? My neck. How the shit do I get you off?”

The suit, of course, doesn’t respond. Why are you talking to an inanimate object? It’s not like it has an AI or anything-

Wait a minute. You glance up and realize that a line in the log mentions an AI. You try a command: “Rev, help?” To your relief the sprite springs to life, doing a spin as a soothing synthesized voice introduces itself:

“Good evening agent. How may I be of assistance?”

You’re surprised that the synthetic tones are cool and androgynous, nothing like the harsh synthesized speech from the game you played earlier today. “Are you the same program that runs the reflex training thing?” The sprite pauses for a moment and displays a small “...” as if thinking over your question before responding.

“Incorrect. The music-enhanced reflex training simulation is managed by a simple program written for that specific purpose.” The sprite in the corner of your visor stops moving for a moment, bringing a hand to its mouth in a thoughtful pose. “Security protocol mandates that I take over administrative permissions in the case of unauthorized access, yet the BCI confirms you are my authorized agent. Please clarify the source of your confusion.”

The back of your neck is throbbing terribly, but you explain your situation to the best of your knowledge. All the while, the AI’s avatar nods along as it absorbs the information.

“So I guess to put it shortly,” You tap the side of your helmet to illustrate your point. “Nobody knows why just yet, but I can’t remember shit.”

“Understood. Activating suit administration priority and applying proper permissions-”

ERROR! REV AI // OVERRIDE ACTIVE

The voice cuts out as another error entry pops into the log. And then another. Line after line as features and permissions have their control shifted to the suit’s AI. You finally take the time to pull yourself up from the floor, flexing and marvelling at the sensation of the scales shifting as you move. 

A low beep draws your attention back to your UI where the error log has been replaced by a DOS-looking window filled only with the following text: 

_**Speech synthesis unavailable in this mode. Please enter command to continue...** _

“Can you get this suit off of me?” The material around your legs and body goes slack as the three seams on the back of the suit instantly burst open following the command. “Oh thank fuck,” you mutter as you peel your limbs out of the suit, almost forgetting to disconnect the helmet before pulling your head out of the armor. The material slips to the ground forgotten as you splash cold water from the sink onto the back of your neck.

“Owwwwww...” You groan as the throbbing starts up again in full force, but keep scooping the water onto your neck for the temporary relief. After a few minutes the pain dies down considerably, and you tenderly feel at it with your fingertips. The skin immediately below your skull feels abnormally smooth and tingles to touch. Definitely a burn.

Your examination is interrupted by a sharp tapping on the door to your room. You dash to throw your pants and shirt back on, being careful of the burn on your neck, before opening the door to reveal a concerned-looking Angela. 

“You did not answer my page,” she states quietly as she peers behind you and into the room. “And have you not unpacked?”

“I didn’t hear a page. It’s not like I’d know where to go anyway.” You grab your sandals from beside the door and slip out to join her. “I guess you want to take a look at me proper now, eh?” The concern fades from her face as she smiles warmly and gestures for you to follow her. 

“After your display earlier today I doubt there are many concerns. I would still like to do an examination to bring your records up to date.” You nod along as she explains the basic tests she plans on performing as you walk with her through the base. Eventually you come to a set of doors that are in far better condition than any part of the building you’ve seen so far, putting even the gleaming kitchens to shame. 

As they slide open you are greeted by a cold, sterile looking medbay. To the right, a sizeable windowed office area lined with bookshelves and filing cabinets. To the left, several hospital beds, exam tables, and intimidating equipment line the walls. Blue sheets hang against the wall, suspended from tracks in the ceiling. The hospital feeling you get from this room makes you uneasy. 

Perhaps it’s because you still aren’t entirely convinced you aren’t in a coma somewhere. 

Angela notices your hesitation at the door and turns, placing a hand gently on your shoulder to bring your focus to her. Despite her obvious concern she is smiling.

“No harm will come to you in my care. You know that, don’t you?”

You nod.

“These facilities were one of the first upgraded when we resumed operations. It was one of my only conditions to accepting the recall.” Angela gestures for you to follow her into the office, pulling a binder from one of the shelves and flipping through it while beckoning you closer. “The other being a strictly medical position. I almost refused outright. Overwatch fell into dark times once. My research was used to develop weapons against my will. Did you know that?”

She’s trying to distract you, you realize.

“No, I didn’t.” You shake your head, leaning closer to the binder to see its contents. Photographs line the pages. Angela points to one in particular, where Winston, yourself, and Lena are working together to affix some sort of computer to a wall. Seeing yourself in photographs you have no memory of will never stop stunning you. Angela leaves you with the binder and pulls a lab coat off the wall, slipping into it and tying her hair up.

“Dark times.” You say to yourself as you flip through the album. Most faces you recognize as heroes from the game, some you don’t. A scruffy-looking man in a cowboy hat catches your eye. “You mean Blackwatch?” The shuffling behind you stops as Angela thinks on how to respond to that. She doesn’t get the opportunity as the doors to Medical slide open and Soldier: 76 steps through them. The old man’s attention is on you immediately as he walks into the office, practically dripping authority as he peers at the album you’re looking through.

“Ah 76, do you require medical assistance?” Angela pulls a file out of a nearby cabinet and props a hand on her hip, eyebrow raised quizzically as the man casually flips the binder closed despite your noise of objection. 

“I need her cleared for combat simulations as soon as possible, Doc.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Click [here](http://faranaelit.tumblr.com/post/156340991861/agent-snares-suit-full-suit-reference-for-the) for the full image if it's not displaying correctly or displaying too small. :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the continuation of last chapter! I finally have everything up and running over on [Tumblr](http://faranaelit.tumblr.com/) for updates as well. :) Been a busy week!

Angela nearly drops the file in her arms, swiftly catching it before bringing herself to full height and tapping over to stand in front of 76. Despite being half a head shorter than him in heels, he backs down slightly at her stern glare. “Don’t be like that,” he grumbles as he crosses his arms, “you and I both know she’s a valuable resource and we’re damn short on recon. The sooner we get her field-ready the better.” **  
**

“She is not a _resource_.” The fury in Mercy’s eyes is evident and you can’t help but swallow nervously. “She is my _patient_. And need I remind you Soldier, you have no authority over either of us.” Intimidation aside, Soldier: 76 huffs at that and stands ever-so-straighter. His head turns slightly in your direction and you can’t help but feel you’re being assessed as Angela continues: “That said, you and I need to have words. I’m still unhappy regarding your treatment of my _patient_ earlier today.”

“Woah, woah.” You raise your hands in objection, stepping between the two quickly before Soldier can respond. The tensions in the room don’t need to rise any further, and you feel like if you don’t step in now they’ll only get worse. “Come on Angie, I’m fine. It was just a little exercise. Go easy on him.” The doctor’s eyes go wide, gaze flicking between you and Soldier before sighing in defeat.

“Very well. But please refrain from making a habit of ganging up on me in my own office.” Her lips twitch into a subtle smile and she gestures towards the door. “Did you need anything else Soldier? I’d like to proceed with the examination.”

Soldier chuckles and it’s as if the argument never happened. The three of you leave the office and he sits in one of the chairs near the door, hands folded in his lap. “I’m gonna stick around. I still need to talk. Unrelated matters.” Angela leads you to one of the exam tables along the wall, drawing a curtain around it and requesting that you take a seat. The thin paper pulled over it crinkles as you hop up onto it.

“Please undress, I will return shortly.” She places a short smock next to you and slips out through a gap in the curtain. You take a deep breath and hold it for a minute, pushing down the creeping anxiety biting at the edges of your consciousness before pulling your shirt off and folding it neatly beside you. As you prepare for whatever she has planned, you can hear hushed conversation through the curtain.

A few moments later, Angela returns with her arms full of various tools and equipment.

“First thing is first,” she places the items down and pulls a thin set of gloves over her hands. From the pile a bandage is pulled, as well as a tube of some sort of ointment. She gestures you to turn and the back of your neck goes cold as soon as the cream touches your skin.

“My apologies, but this will have to stay as it is. If I heal it, you will be burnt just as badly the next time. I can give you this, however.” She smooths the bandage over the burn, passing the tube of cream to you. “Three times a day, please. And you’ll need to remove that bandage before you go putting that suit back on or the interface will not synchronize correctly. Which if I’m not mistaken will only generate _more_ heat.”

You place the cream with your clothes and guiltily smile at the doctor. “Not sure how keen I am on putting that thing back on if this is going to happen every time.” Mercy rolls her eyes rather unprofessionally and smirks at you before lifting your limbs one at a time and examining them. Here and there she squeezes the muscles before making notes in your file.

“Perhaps if you had asked for the suit to be inspected or calibrated it before putting it on, the neural interfacing unit would not have overheated. I assume you will be unable to do it yourself in your current condition?” She mumbles something about your blood pressure before continuing with her train of thought. “Winston has experience with electronics, perhaps he could assist you. Though if memory serves, that device always ran a bit hot for my liking. You had quite the callus built up. Chin, please.”

You lift your chin and she gently prods the sides of your neck, running her fingers along your jaw before tapping your chin. You open wide and she peers inside, prodding your tongue around with a flat rod.

“She shouldn’t be wearing that thing yet as it is,” Soldier’s voice floats from the other end of the room and you jump. You hadn’t realized he was still here. “I’ve seen the holovids. I know what it’s capable of.”

“You know,” you snap back to him as soon as Angela is done prodding around the back of your throat. “I’m right here. You have this bad habit of talking around me like I’m not.”

“I’ve read your file, kid. Seems to me you prefer not being noticed.”

The good doctor pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “You know,” she grumbles, barely loud enough to be heard. “You two are startlingly alike, now that I have the both of you in the same room.” She hands your clothes back to you with a lopsided smile.

“Aside from that burn, I’m giving you a clean bill of health.” She raises her volume somewhat, you assume so Soldier can hear her clearly. ”I expect to see you back in here immediately following your return to training, should you choose to do so. I also recommend continuing without your suit. Your body has been resting for far too long and you will need time to build your strength and stamina. Don’t be tempted to cheat.”

She slips out the curtain again to give you privacy to change, and once again you hear hushed tones from beyond the curtain. You poke at the back of your neck a bit as you slip back into your clothes, but whatever that cream is has the area completely numbed. You pocket the tube and tug the curtain back along the track to the wall as Soldier stands and Angela shuts herself in her office. You give her a little wave as you pass but she already has her nose buried in a filing cabinet.

“Come on kid, you have a job to do.” Soldier crosses his arms as you approach and you can’t help the twinge of annoyance at the nickname.

“If you keep calling me kid, I’m going to start calling you ‘Old Man.’ Cut it out.”

“Doesn’t change the fact you’re at least half my age, _kid_.”

“That’s even more reason to call you old, _Old Man_.”

Soldier makes a sound of distaste and turns to leave. “Fine,” he starts, palm hovering over the door controls. “If you’re done acting like a bratty civilian, I need to see about booking space for some one-on-one training. I’ll walk you back. Try to keep up.” He turns the corner without waiting for a response.

This guy is sending massively mixed signals. One minute he’s all business, the next he’s joking around. It’s as if he can’t decide if he wants to trust you or not.

“So, what kind of training?” You try to break the silence, half-jogging to keep up with his brisk pace. “I don’t exactly have any experience with this shit.”

“You displayed some serious aptitude this morning, game or not. I’d like to see if that muscle memory kicks in when you have a weapon in your hands.” You have to weave around a small robot vacuuming the floor, nearly slipping as you try to take the corner too quickly.

“Yeah, because I’m _super_ coordinated.” You think you catch a brief chuckle from Soldier at your sarcasm. “My only experience with anything remotely gun-shaped are those zombie-shooting games at the arcade. And spoiler alert: I’m terrible at them.” You actually recognize this part of the base, you realize. Your room should be just ahead.

“I guess it’s a good thing you won’t be issued a gun, then.” He stops at your door and waits for you to catch up. How in the fuck does that man walk so quickly? Long-ass legs? You pause beside him and catch your breath. He hands you a plastic case, no bigger than a thumb drive. “I pulled these from your files. Consider this your homework for tonight, _kid_.”

You turn it over in your hands as he walks away. Inside is a small black square.

“Wait,” you call after him. He stops and looks over his shoulder as you hold up the tiny thing. “What is this?” His surprise is comically obvious as he stomps back to you and swipes the device from your hand.

“You can’t be serious.” He holds it up to your face, not an inch from your nose. “Don’t play the idiot.” You look between the slightly out-of-focus square and his visor, shaking your head slightly as you reach up to gently push his hand away from your face.

“I’m serious. Not a clue. Can we just assume I know nothing of any technology developed after the 2010’s?” Soldier makes a strangled noise and places his hand on the access panel to your room, stomping in uninvited as you make a mad rush in ahead of him to shove the care package of undergarments from Hana under the bed. He begins tearing the lids off of the crates in your room, obviously searching for something.

You push some of the armor plates from the suit aside and plop down on the bed, watching amused as Soldier abandons one crate after another in his search. “Why do I get the feeling this is the equivalent to a kid in my time not knowing what a VHS is?” He freezes and slowly turns to look in your direction.

_“What?”_

“Oh, they’re these blocky plastic things.” You hold your hands up to roughly the dimensions of a VHS. “They hold a strip of magnetic tape that holds recorded video. Pretty outdated tech, most people use DVDs or Blu-Ray nowadays but-” Soldier waves a hand at you and sighs.

“No, not that.” He pulls a smaller box out of the crate he’s been going through and walks over to the desk. “I thought you were being sarcastic, but how the _hell_ does a woman who uses a suit based on advanced nanotechnology and neural interfacing not know what a damn holochip is?” He plugs the sleek box into the wall and taps a few buttons, a holographic display flickering to life above it.

“I’m going to assume y’all didn’t get the whole debriefing thing done after it was postponed last night, huh?” You pull yourself up and walk over to the desk as Soldier fiddles with some settings on the device, the display flickering in and out of focus. “My memory’s not just fucked, I’ve got a whole new set in there from about… What year is it now? 2076?”

“2077. Nearly ‘78.” Soldier mumbles in response, half distracted with what he’s doing.

“Yeah, okay, what’s 78 minus 16?” You pause for a second to do the math. “62? So I’m stuck almost 62 years in the past. This shit’s all new to me. As far as I’m concerned, I am _literally_ in the future right now.” You lean back against the desk, studying Soldier’s body language as he leans over the projector. He remains silent, so you continue: “‘Hog and Rat said I was in some kind of VR tank when they found me. The crew thinks something bugged out and the setting from the simulation is just stuck ‘in’ me somehow. We won’t know more ‘till Winston goes through the drive the guys pulled.”

The man sets the small chip from before into a slot on the device. A menu depicting some kind of filesystem appears instantly on the display and he starts gliding his fingers over it, _through_ it, moving things around.

“Watch as many of these as you can manage tonight. The ones in this folder-” He points to a small list of video files, “take priority. I’ve already been through them, there’s nothing here you aren’t cleared to see. Even if you are… Compromised.” He turns to stare at you, the red glow of his visor unnerving. “What you just told me? Keep it to yourself. That’s an order.” His tone is suddenly deadly serious and it sends a chill up your spine.

“Stay put. You go _nowhere_ in this base without an escort from this moment. Understood?” He rests a hand on your shoulder and squeezes slightly. You swallow thickly, your mouth suddenly very dry. You can’t decide if that gesture is threatening or protective. He releases you and weaves through the scattered crates towards the door, stopping at the bed to scoop up the strange wrist piece from the pile of suit parts.

“Watch those holovids. Do some unpacking. Get some sleep. Occupy yourself.” At the door he pauses a moment and looks back at you where you stand somewhat stunned by the desk. “Don’t take this personally kid. I’ll see you in the morning.”

You glance at the clock. It’s only mid-afternoon. What’s he talking about?

The door slides closed with a hiss and a light beside the access panel begins blinking an angry red.

You have a sneaking suspicion you’ve just been locked in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t help but picture Dad: 76 huddled over a tablet furiously looking up what the hell a VHS is after this conversation. Keep in mind the dude’s not going to even be born for another 3 years. Hell, the _current_ generation barely knows what VHS tapes are…


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special shout-out to everyone who has joined my [Discord chat](https://discord.gg/BfxnRfe) so far! It's super nice being able to chat with you all!

Your suspicion is confirmed as you place your hand over the scanner and it prompts you for a keycard. 

That asshole actually locked you in. Great.

“Seriously? I’m on house arrest now?” There is, of course, no response. “Alright, calm down. There has to be a reason. And now you have no distractions!” You try to reassure yourself, feeling a panic gnawing its way up your chest. 

Deep breaths. Calm down. 

You idly pick at the edge of the bandage on your neck as you examine the holovid display, setting up a playlist of the videos Soldier instructed you to watch. As soon as you tap the play button the projection increases in size and begins playing your selected videos in sequence. You unpack the crates to the background noise of what seems to be security footage from the yards around the watchpoint. 

Most of ‘your’ belongings are simple. A clock here, a pile of jeans there. The larger crates contain strange sets of tools and electronic equipment. Unsure of their function, you pile them under the desk for now. One case in particular contains what must be thousands of small black specks that resemble the segmented scales on your suit. Spares, maybe? You put them near the top of the pile in case you ever need them. 

And then there are the books. Hundreds of them. You thumb through the titles and find everything from trashy romance novels to engineering texts, setting some of the smaller wooden crates on their side against the wall to act as a makeshift bookshelf as you carefully file them away by subject. 

When you find a crate containing nothing but shimmery fabrics in colorful prints and packages of magnets, a light bulb ignites in your brain. If you’re going to be locked in here, you may as well make it comfortable right? You look around at the cold metal plating on the walls and you get to work, using the magnets to pin the colorful lengths up to flow down the walls. Obscuring the metal surrounding you gives you comfort and takes the edge off your anxiety. You hadn’t realized how claustrophobic all that brushed metal was.

Crates unpacked, clothing folded, and everything put away, you glance hopefully at the clock.

It’s only fucking seven. Seriously? 

Grumbling to yourself angrily you pull your suit from where it still lies on the bathroom floor, spreading it out on the bed and getting to work at securing the white armor plates to the clips scattered across the material. Since this is a mostly handsy activity you finally have the spare eyes to pay attention to the videos that are still playing on your desk. 

Overwatch-you is weaving through a maze of crates at a decent speed, tossing small objects from her pockets behind her as she goes. The view is grainy, but a moment after she slips out of sight a group of robots appears to follow her through. There is a bright flash of light each time a bot tries to pass a cluster of the dropped objects before it slumps to the ground, unmoving. 

Maybe you should have been paying more attention to the holovids, because this is actually sort of fascinating. 

The display flickers as it moves on to the next clip, this time showcasing a line of bots hovering at the end of a small range that you recognize from the game’s tutorial map. There you stand on-screen, engaged in a dialogue with Winston as you gesture to a device at your wrist. After a few moments of discussion, the you-that-is-not-you turns and points her arm at one of the bots, firing a single shot before looking to Winston for confirmation. He looks directly at the camera before nodding for her to continue.

Four shots from her wrist later there is a similar flash as the bot she’s firing at drops to the ground, moving parts convulsing somewhat. Winston jots something down on a clipboard before passing it over, and the other you shakes her head and takes the pen, jotting something down beside his notes as he nods.

The video flickers again as it rolls to the next clip. Again, in the training yard as you and several agents move in formation. Your attention is drawn to a tall sarape-clad team member, trying to make out McCree’s form on the blurry footage as he directs the group. You dash ahead of the others, hiding out of sight of bots and dropping those same traps as before to immobilize them so the team may move forward without resistance. You note that after a few seconds immobile the bots resume function, but at that point it’s too late to retaliate and they are taken out by the team.

You can’t help but think about it in terms of game mechanics as the holovids continue to play. She- you- obviously don’t have much offensive capability, focusing on scouting and disabling opponents rather than killing them outright. 15 shots per clip, if you’re counting right. Some sort of stun mechanic tied to hitting a target multiple times. Some sort of trap that stuns. A defense or support hero, then? Little support capability, but at the same time way too forward for defense. 

You return to affixing the plates to your suit, glancing up every so often to study the goings-on in the holovids but they are so repetitive they can’t really hold your interest. By the time the playlist has run its course a few more hours have passed and your suit is assembled. Your stomach grumbles at you as if on-cue just as the holovid shrinks back down to display the file system menu.

You are (somewhat painfully) aware of the fact that the only thing you’ve had to eat today was a few mouthfuls of Lena’s breakfast, but as you glare at the door it’s evident that there’s nothing you can do about that. You hadn’t found any hidden snack caches amongst the boxes of belongings, and with the door locked-

Wait a tick.

Squinting at the panel beside the door you can confirm that there is, in fact, no blinky red light. Ever-so-cautiously you approach the panel and place your hand on the access, chewing your lip thoughtfully as the door hisses open. The hall is dark, and a glance at the clock confirms you’ve managed to pass a few more hours working on your suit. There is a flicker of light from the nearby common rooms, perhaps someone watching television, but aside from that the hall shows no sign of life. 

You slip into your sandals and step out into the hall, looking this way and that as you go. Soldier’s order not to wander the base without an escort floats to the surface of your thoughts, but so does Angela’s earlier statement: Despite his demeanor, he doesn’t technically hold rank over you. Apparently.

The twisting knot in your stomach prods you forward as you try to remember the way to the kitchens, walking as quietly as you can to avoid attracting undue attention. Old man be damned, you are getting something to eat before you crash for the night. Despite your best efforts at silence, your footsteps echo through the corridor. 

No, that’s not right. The soft pad of your sandals shouldn’t echo at all on this tile.

You skip for a step, the sound of your foot tapping lightly on the tile twice.

The echo only taps once.

You spin as quickly as you can, scanning the hall behind you but nothing seems out of place. Not a soul. Not a speck. But you  _ know _ you aren’t hearing things.

“You know,” you speak to nobody in particular, your voice echoing slightly in the long hall. “If this were a horror movie I’d get spooked and start booking it. But since this place is pretty damn secure I’m just going to assume you’re either really bad at your job or  _ trying _ to be noticed.” Or trying to test your perception, but you don’t say that aloud.

There’s no response. Well, if you aren’t supposed to go through the building without an escort, you suppose you have one now.

“Be that way then. I’m going to the kitchen.”

And on you go, taking note that the echo from before is noticeably absent despite you taking less care to walk quietly. Whoever was following you has either stopped or is taking more care to muffle their own steps. Either way, when you reach your destination you glance behind you once more. Still, the hall is empty. You give a friendly wave to nothing in particular before entering the kitchens. 

Which, contrary to your expectations for one in the morning, are  _ not _ empty.

There, in nothing but shorts and a single raggedy slipper, standing deathly still and staring at a bubbling pot on one of the stoves, is Junkrat. So focused is he on the pot that he doesn’t even acknowledge your presence as you approach. As you reach him a small beep sounds from the stove and he hollers excitedly, pulling the pot onto the counter and setting a lid over it while setting a second timer before resuming his statuesque vigil.

You step in and flick the dial for the burner off, finally catching his attention.

“Oi, was usin’ that.”

“And then you weren’t.” You chuckle before moving to one of the fridges, pulling out the first bundle of tinfoil you find and peering inside. Lasagne. Good enough. Nudging the refrigerator closed with your hip you peer back over at him. “You left it on. Could burn someone.”

“Nah. Thing only gets hot when there’s a pot on it anyway.” He doesn’t look away from his creation but reaches his good hand over to pat the stovetop. You didn’t think he’d be physically capable of staying this focused on  _ anything _ . You poke around the cabinet with all the dishes before finding the cutlery and starting into the leftovers cold.

“So,” you begin between mouthfuls: “You cook, huh?”

“Eh. M’pearls went off. Makin’ a fresh batch.” You lean forward to get a good view of his face and see his eyes flickering impatiently between the pot and the timer.

“Pearls?”

At a speed that should give the damn man whiplash, Junkrat has turned and gripped your shoulders before you can properly register what’s happening. The grin on his face is bright enough to light up a football stadium and you spot a glint of gold.

“Good fuck!” You can’t help but jump at his exclamation, the mad giggle following it causing your skin to tingle. His fingers dig into your shoulder tightly. Not enough to hurt, but definitely enough to cause some mild discomfort. “That mem’ry shit of yours is actually good for somethin’! You get to try this shit for the first time  _ twice! _ ” He glances at the timer and his grip relaxes somewhat. “Well, in about 15 minutes anyway. You  _ are _ in fer a treat, I’ve been gettin’ bettah at makin’ it from scratch!”

He releases you then, spinning on his peg and making a mad hobble for the fridge on the other end of the room. You shovel some more lasagne into your face before you can be interrupted again, squinting at the Junker as he pulls two jugs clearly labeled “JUNK STUFF HANDS OFF” from the fridge and slams them onto the counter. An old-fashioned kettle is pulled from a cabinet and filled before being tossed onto the burner you’d just flicked off. You crank the knob back up to a told-you-so smile from Junkrat as he fills a metal canister with ice, flitting around the kitchen grabbing various items from cabinets as he goes.

Realization dawns on you as the kettle hisses and he pulls it off the heat, flicking the burner off with another smug-ass grin and tossing in a handful of tea bags.

“So wait, you’re making tea?”

“Shit yeah!” He cackles as he crosses the kitchen and literally throws two tall cups across the room at you. You toss your foil packet of food aside and barely manage to catch the glasses, breathing a sigh of relief as you realize they’re just plastic. “Jus’ be careful takin’ a swig, eh? First time you choked on a pearl. Fuckin’ hilarious but something tells me you wouldn’t want to repeat that experience. I’ll make yours with extra syrup since I take mine-”

“Half sweet.” You finish his sentence for him, earning a cocked eyebrow and a puzzled squeak from Junkrat. You place the glasses on the counter and shake your head. “Don’t get too excited, that was part of the sim, not a memory. Your character kept milk tea with boba in his canteen. Half sweet.” 

Rat hunches over the pot on the counter, face twisted in thought. “So how’d they fuckin’ know that?” The timer beeps loudly and he silences it, busying himself with pouring things into the small metal canister he’d been holding earlier. After a moment he passes it to you. “Shake this.” You give it a little jiggle and he rolls his eyes while he busies himself with the pot of tapioca pearls. “Christ you must bore the men in yer life, eh? Harder’n that! Really work it! C’mon!” 

Your ears burn at the implication and he cackles loudly while making a rather lewd gesture. Gripping the canister in such a way as to make the action as innocent as possible, you shake the bejeebus out of the thing, the sound of clacking ice nearly loud enough to drown out Junkrat’s laughter. After a moment he takes the cool metal from you and strains it into a glass over a generous pile of pearls and syrup, giving it a stir with quite possibly the largest straw you have ever seen. 

“Watch it,” he passes the glass your way, the once-hot tea now pleasantly cool after its ice shake. “M’serious. Don’t fuckin’ choke. Doc’ll kill me.” And with that he busies himself with making his own drink, putting on quite the show while shaking the tea with the ice. His glances to make sure you’re watching aren’t in any way subtle.

You smile around the straw, taking small sips of the sweet drink and pausing every so often to study the texture of the chewy tapioca. Definitely not something you would drink every day, but it makes a nice treat. 

“Well?” You find his proximity almost uncomfortably close as he sips from his own drink, leaning in and looking down at you expectantly. The smell of tar and sweat drifts off of him, mixing strangely with that of the sweet milk tea. 

“It’s pretty good,” you mumble, distracting yourself by taking another large sip. “A bit plain, though. I mean, it’s not bad but-” You try to backpedal, but he just giggles and leans back against the counter. 

“Nah, I get it. There’s this shop in town what makes a ton’a tea ‘n sweets, right? Whole wall full’a syrups. Mango, strawb’ry, some other shit I can’t say right. All good though.” He holds the glass up towards the kitchen lights, squinting as if trying to see the glare through the opaque liquid. “Roadie’n me ride down when we get sick’a all this healthy shit. Should come with next time. Get a taste’a the good stuff.”

“Junkrat I don’t even know what  _ currency _ the world’s on right now. No job, no name, no accounts, I’m not going out to tea I can’t pay for.”

Junkrat, despite his earlier warnings to you, learns firsthand the consequences of accidentally inhaling a tapioca pearl. Slamming his glass down on the counter, he doubles over hacking and wheezing as you reach over and pat his back firmly. After a moment he looks up to you with eyes wide. “What’n the fuck makes you think you’d be payin’? I’m offerin’ ain’t I?”

“Since when does the great ‘no score too small’ Junkrat pay for goods and services?” You counter with a grin, and something resembling pride flickers across his face briefly before turning sour.

“Since Hog’n me got us a contract.” He fishes around in his pockets for a few seconds before handing you a small card. “S’long as we’re on this hunk’a rock we’re legit. Sorta.” Grinning madly up at you from a small photo on the ID card is a much cleaner Junkrat, in a shirt and everything. The name on the ID catches your eye and you can’t help but bark out a laugh.

“Roper Harris?  _ Roper _ ?” The junker beside you flicks his hand over yours and snaps the card up.

“Oi. I didn’t make the fuckin’ ID, blame the ape.” His frown deepens as you fight to stifle a fit of giggles.

“ _ Roper. _ ” You whisper, rolling your eyes as you take another sip of tea.

“Sheila, I  _ will _ gut you.” You chance a peek over your glass at him and, despite his harsh words, his pout of damaged pride speaks volumes.

“You will not, that’s Hog’s job. Besides, you obviously like me too much to kill me.” 

“Do not.” 

“Enough to ask me on a date.” 

“Wot.” The pouty faux-fury is instantly wiped from his face, as is most of his color; Beneath the layer of grime he noticeably pales. “Shit, I didn’t mean a  _ date _ . Why th’fuck would I do that?” The panic in his voice catches you off guard. He catches your narrowed eyes and facepalms with his good hand. “Shit, I didn’t fuckin’ mean it that way!” 

“No can do is all. Roadie’n I have a deal. Fifty-fifty, right? Ev’rythin’. He’d chuck a wobbly if I went back on me word.” He’s doing that thing again, you notice, where he looks everywhere but at you.

“But he’d be going too, so why’s that a problem?”

Junkrat stops and blinks a few times, staring straight ahead as if he’s lost his train of thought or terribly misunderstood the conversation.

“So,” you jiggle your empty glass in front of his face to catch his attention. “You two come and get me next time you feel like sneaking off-base for tea and goodies. We’ll make a day of it. As long as Hog wouldn’t mind me tagging along?”

“Nah, Roadie’s fancied ya since Moscow. Don’t tell him I said that. He’ll string me up.” he brings his hands up and links his fingers behind his neck, giggling nervously to himself. “He won’t mind havin’ ya along, I reckon.”

“It’s a date, then. Once I’m allowed to leave.”

Junkrat tugs your unfinished packet of lasagne his way and grabs a chunk of meat, popping it into his mouth thoughtfully as you gather up the small pile of dishes he’s made. You don’t see any form of dishwasher so you resign yourself to rinsing and stacking them neatly in one of the many sinks. He sure as hell won’t do it, so you may as well.

“S’not a date,” he argues through a mouthful of food as he pulls himself up to sit on the counter. “Why th’fuck are ya so keen on that anyway? Sure as shit ain’t interested.” You turn to face him and flick water at him from your fingers as you pass in search of a towel. He recoils and cracks the back of his head against the cabinetry, hissing in pain.

“It’s a figure of speech, dude. You okay?” You hear a quiet noise of confirmation behind you as you dry your hands. “Besides, what if I was? You’re a nice enough guy.” You hear a second CRACK followed by a streak of muffled cursing and turn to see him rubbing the back of his head while glaring at the wooden door behind him. 

“What, can’t take a compliment? I mean it. You’ve been nothing but good to me since you found me. I bet you treated me just as nicely before, too.” The furious pink tinting the tips of his ears and spreading across his face as he stubbornly focuses his attention on the wood behind him eggs you on: “Come to think of it, I’d bet you clean up pretty good, Rat. I don’t see why anyone with a head on their shoulders wouldn’t see the appeal. So answer the question: You’re so sure I’m not interested, but what if I was?”

As much as you are both teasing and trying to bring up his own self-esteem, you can’t deny there’s truth to your words. Junkrat has treated you like a cherished friend through this whole ordeal, going out of his way to make you laugh at every opportunity. You will never comprehend the loss he and the others must feel having misplaced their history with you, but between the two Australians you’ve felt more accepted than with nearly anyone else. They don’t tiptoe around or bring up your condition constantly. They are a happy medium, just telling it like it is and moving on to the next subject of conversation.

You take a minute to really look at him as he sits there stunned with his mouth slightly agape. To really  _ see _ the man in front of you as an old friend instead of a game character. Underneath the heavy layer of ash and grease, beneath the tired yet manic eyes and the patchy hair, and beyond the horrific posture there sits an awkward yet passionate 20-something who just wants to find his place in the world. 

“Cheers, mate. Even if it’s a crock ‘a shit.” He whispers at a volume you didn’t think someone that loud could accomplish before clearing his throat and attempting to change the subject: “You should crash. I’ve got invent’ry to restock.”

The first thing to go through your brain is that his self-degrading bullshit is incredibly irritating. 

The second thing is that he just accused you of lying, and you intend to put a stop to that right quick. 

You move without thinking about it at all.

Before you can catch yourself, you’ve closed the distance between yourself and where he sits with his legs dangling off the counter, eyes wide and confused as he meets your determined glare. You can feel a burst of confidence flaring from your chest into your shoulders as you slam your palms onto the counter to either side of him. Size difference be damned, he hunches back away from you and nearly smacks his head against the cabinets again. 

“For the record,” your voice is quiet, cool, and collected, and deadly serious. “If I say someone would be crazy to think you’re anything but awesome, I mean it. I wouldn’t lie to you. A friendship is nothing without trust, and trust is fucked without honesty. Also you’re tall as shit, come down here.” Junkrat’s face is scrunched up in confusion at your sudden change in demeanor, but you pay that no mind as you wait for him to slowly inch closer. 

When he finally gets close, bent near-double where he sits, you slowly wrap your arms around his neck in a gentle hug. Standing on tiptoe, you lean in closer to reach his ear, the smell of pitch and smoke burning your nose at this distance.

“If it’s fifty-fifty, tell Hog I owe him one.” You turn and give him an innocent peck on the cheek before pulling back and giving him your biggest reassuring grin. His face is still contorted in the most comical display of confusion you’ve ever seen, but there’s a hint of a smile playing on his lips. You casually reach past him to grab a box of crackers from the counter to take back to your room. “I’m off to bed. Good night!”

You spin on your heel and leave the kitchens where Junkrat continues to sit in stunned silence. As you happily stroll through the halls towards the barracks, you’re too lost in your own thoughts to notice the shadow that slips out to follow you from beside the kitchen doors.

You’re not entirely sure where that sudden burst of confidence came from. 

It feels dangerous.

You kinda like it.

  
  


\-----

  
  


What in the fuck was  _ that _ ?

He watches you leave in silence, mentally screaming at himself to for once in his life keep his fucking mouth shut or he’s ‘prolly going to say something stupid as shit and piss you off even more.

But were you even upset? Was that you being massively ticked off? Were you making some sort of power play? You never used to pull that shit. You kinda reminded him of Roadie for a tick there.

What the fuck  _ was _ that?

Ah, fuck if he knows. He hops off the counter, adjusting his now-kinda-fuckin’-uncomfortable shorts with a grumble. The spot on his cheek where your lips had barely touched his skin is burning. No, he decides, not burning. Tinglin’. Kinda pleasant actually.

Fifty-fifty.

If you had meant what he thinks you meant, this could mean shit hitting a particularly large fan. Or he could just go with it as usual and fuck any (heh) consequences. Old angel wings wouldn’t like that much. Frog’d prolly kill him. Pipsqueak would  _ definitely _ kill him. Hog would… Well, the fat bastard would do whatever he wanted, as usual.

He needs to talk to Roadie.

  
_ But what the fuck was that?! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did the door get unlocked? 
> 
> Who is stalking our dear agent through the base?
> 
> What happened in Moscow?
> 
> I have no idea! Except I do. But YOU have no idea! [LAUGHS MANIACALLY]


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we talk for a second about the _ten thousand_ hits and nearly a thousand kudos on this thing? You guys are absolutely amazing and your comments and tags (from the Tumblr folk) are the best inspiration to keep writing ever. Seriously. 
> 
> If you’re feeling chatty, here’s a reminder that I have a [Discord server](https://discord.gg/BfxnRfe) and a [Tumblr](http://faranaelit.tumblr.com/) (where I post chapters with a collection of favorite comments and a little doodle!)

If Soldier: 76 is in the know with regards to your late-night snack run, he doesn’t let on when he casually lets himself into your room come morning. At most, he lingers at the door for a moment and glares at the access panel. You hadn’t known how to re-lock the door when you got in last night. 

Oh well, it’s not like you’re the one who unlocked it in the first place.

Regardless of his state of pissed-off-or-not, you silently thank any higher powers looking out for you that you’d gotten up and dressed already because the door suddenly hissing open catches you completely off-guard. 

“What. The fuck. Soldier.” Your unimpressed scowl doesn’t seem to phase him. He leans against the wall casually and crosses his arms as he takes in the changes to the room from the day before. “It’s called knocking. You should try it sometime.” Your gaze flickers to the packing crate you’ve repurposed as a laundry basket. Thank goodness you hadn’t left any unmentionables laying around.

Soldier huffs and shrugs. “You’re with me today, kid. I have the training yards around the launch bay and a squadron of bots booked for training exercises starting an hour from now. Leave the suit, there’s gear waiting for you there.” He brings himself back up to his full height and opens the door, glancing back over his shoulder as he leaves. “Put on something you can move freely in. Proper footwear. We’ll stop by the mess hall on the way. I’m looking forward to seeing what we can coax out of you.”

“Well that wasn’t ominous at all,” you mumble to yourself as you change into a set of thin workout clothes and sneakers you’d found among the boxes of belongings. A whole day of exercise and god-knows-what with a war veteran who has no concept of personal limits? This is going to either be a great learning experience or absolute hell. 

Likely both.

 

\-----

 

One rushed helping of waffles and fruit later, you find yourself escorted through yet another part of the watchpoint you haven’t seen yet. The room the old Soldier leads you to features a window, something you actually haven’t seen since you landed, come to think of it. He grunts as you shove past him to peer out the dirty glass, taking in the view of the sun glinting off the water far below. Leaning in to see as far to the side as possible, it becomes clear why the facility has so little natural light: It seems that a good portion of the base is underground, built into the rock itself.

After everything you’ve seen these past few days, it almost strikes you as unusual that the sea looks so  _ normal _ . No high-tech future bullshit, or if there is it’s far enough away that you can’t make it out clearly. Just water, sunlight, and rocks as far as you can see. Well, and boats.

What even  _ is _ normal any more? You’ve barely been here three days and already you’re being thrown into things you really aren’t prepared for. What’s worse, you haven’t really had any desire to turn them down. A part of you wants to see if their little pokes and prods bring some memories to the surface. Because if you remember something from  _ before _ , the ‘simulation’ might feel a bit less real.

And it  _ does _ feel real. Too real. You remember the way home from the grocery store. You remember the faces and voices and mannerisms of those closest to you. You remember seeing this, all of this, in a game on a screen. All of it as clear as if it were only a few days ago. You  _ had _ experienced it. Did that make it any more real?

On the other hand, you remember the taste of salt. You remember growled reassurances and the smell of sulphur. Concerned faces afraid of the worst. Handshakes and hugs. Milk tea. Do the memories make it real? The actions? How can you be absolutely sure what’s actually happened if you can’t even trust your own thoughts?

“I want to see how well you do unassisted,  _ agent _ .” 

Soldier: 76’s gravelly voice pulls you from the sunlit window and back into this reality. The way he emphasizes the title causes that tiny stubborn spark, that desire to prove yourself, to bubble to the surface again. 

“I can’t make any promises,” you take a deep breath and push the thoughts of realities and memories to the back of your mind. Whatever ‘real’ is, it won’t do you any good right here and now. “What’s our goal here? I don’t know anything about combat or weapons.”

He hands you a small earbud. “I’ll be monitoring your progress from the security station. When I signal you to start, you will equip yourself and make your way to the other end of this corridor.” He gestures to a map on the wall as he speaks:

“The area has been populated with sentry drones with the instruction to shoot on sight. They’re set to low-impact pulse fire, but don’t let your guard down. Use any means necessary to reach your goal, taking as few hits as possible. Depending on how you take to it, we’ll move on to proper combat exercises before the day is done. Take a seat.”

You lower yourself onto a bench and adjust the tiny earpiece to fit you comfortably. “So get to the other side and don’t get hit by the bots. Take them out if they’re in my way. That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he confirms. “When I leave this room you will get your gear in order. Once the monitors are prepped I’ll signal you to start. The goal here is to see where your head is at: You obviously have some skills despite your condition, you showed that yesterday. Avoid property damage if you can, but the bots are fair game. Got it?” There’s something different about Soldier’s attitude today that you can’t quite put your finger on.

“Yes sir.” You nod and he returns the gesture before leaving the room without another word. Once again you see a familiar red light blinking beside the door. Locked in, then. Of course. You immediately make your way to the equipment on the table to see what you have to work with.

You immediately recognize the weapon, a wrist-mounted gun of some kind, from the holovids you watched last night. You start there, slipping it onto your wrist and immediately feeling the cool material warm as it powers on. Thin cables run from it into some sort of battery pack, the yellow and grey box clashing terribly with the sleek blue and white of the weapon. 

“Different power source since it’s without the suit, maybe…?” Mumbling to yourself you slip a combat vest and pouch-covered harness on, fiddling with straps and buckles as you go to adjust the fit. The pockets are stuffed near to bursting with narrow, cylindrical cartridges and odd metal discs no wider than your thumb.

“Wait a tick.” You hold one of the discs between your forefinger and thumb, turning it in the light. These are from the videos too, you realize as you idly press a button on the side. The device begins to hum quietly, you assume as it arms. This is definitely one of the things the other-you was throwing from her pockets in the training footage. 

The realization that this thing might explode or something hits you a moment too late and just as it lets out a muffled beep, you squeak and throw it with force across the room. Rather than detonating, it simply sticks to the wall where it hits.

Well that’s interesting. You pull a second from the pockets, taking a closer look at the bottom. You tap the surface against the metal wall a few times but it doesn’t adhere. You arm this one as well, waiting for the beep before tossing it, gently this time, towards where the first disc is on the wall. Sure enough it sticks, going as far as to flip mid-air before thudding with force onto the panel. Magnets, maybe?

And then something unexpected happens. From the surface of each disc rises a small rod, and you swear you can instantly feel something in the air change. A chill shudders up your spine and the skin on your arms bursts into gooseflesh. “Hey Soldier,” you whine and hope he can hear you through the communication device on your ear. “This stuff’s not gonna fry me, is it?” You wait a moment, afraid to move with the strange feeling in the air, but there is no answer through your earpiece. “Hello? Yes? No? Kind of need to know.”

“Your equipment is non-lethal.” You breathe a sigh of relief as his voice crackles over the comm in your ear. “I’m not giving you any hints. Work it out for yourself. I’m nearly set up on this end. ”

“What are you even doing up there?” You very cautiously approach the two discs where they sit on the wall, the static feeling increasing with close proximity. You reach out and wave your hand around the nearest one, and your skin goes pins and needles the closer you get. 

“Organizing the feeds I need. Making coffee.” The casual smugness of his voice catches you by surprise, compared to how he’d been acting before he left. “Watch yourself, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Huh?” Despite him not actually being in the room with you, you turn to look in the direction your earpiece. With that turn your hand passes in between the two devices on the wall, and suddenly your body is full of fire. 

You can’t move. 

You can’t even scream. 

Every muscle in your body is in agony, tensed and angry. Molten flame shoots through your nerves, the heat unbearable as your brain screeches for you to move away. Get away from the danger. Move away from the wall. Why can’t you move? Why is there pain? 

It  _ hurts _ .

And then, as suddenly as it began, the pain is gone. The discs fall to the floor, dead.

You just stare at your hand. It tingles, as if it’s asleep. Pins and needles. Your thoughts scatter. How can a pain so intense just  _ stop _ like that? It should linger. It should still hurt. You feel like you should still be in pain. 

You never want to experience that, whatever that was, _ ever again _ .

“Kid, you okay? I’m getting a lot of feedback on this end.” There is a voice in your head. Soldier: 76, you remind yourself. You reach up with a shaking hand to feel the tiny device in your ear. It takes you a moment to find your voice.

“... Ow.”

“What’s your status, agent?” He sounds concerned. No, he sounds angry. He sounds… both?

“F-figuring out the gear. I’m okay. Just did something stupid.”

“Well, smarten up. Ziegler will pull your clearance if you get yourself hurt.” The tingling in your hand is quickly fading. “I’m set up here. Start the run when you’re ready. Clearing comms.”

“Okay. Just… Give me a minute.” 

“Try to think of it in game mechanics,” you mumble to yourself as you cautiously pick up the dead discs, which you now realize are some kind of trap. Your gaze flickers to the door. Metal wall panels. Metal doors. Metal floors, in some places. The year 2070-whatever sure loves its futuristic architecture. Stick a trap to either side of a door, and any enemy who comes through… “Zap. Stuck in place with an… electric current of some kind?”

Oh for fuck’s sake, the name makes sense now. You bark a laugh at the idiocy of it. Stuck in place? No...  _ Snared. _ There’s two mysteries solved: The agent name and what the discs are. Now what about this gun?

A small blue display on the back reads ‘00’, what you assume is the ammo count. Some experimentation prodding at the bits and pieces of the weapon you clearly recognize from the holovids last night reveals that the top portion pops up, opening a slot that fits the smooth cartridges stuffed into the harness pockets. The ‘15’ displayed as you click the top back into place confirms your theory.

Being careful to keep the business end of the weapon pointed away from you, you carefully twist and prod at its parts in an attempt to figure out the multi-part firing mechanism. When squeezed a certain way, the device jolts uncomfortably with a soft ‘pop’ and fires a tiny dart forcefully into the wall beside you. 

You cringe at the shallow puncture in the wall, remembering Soldier’s instructions to avoid property damage if possible. The small projectile sparks and hisses angrily for a few seconds before dying. Cautiously, you pluck the dart from the wall and give it a closer look. Obviously warped from its impact with the metal, the body is barely the length of your fingernail and the needle-like tip a quarter of that. 

In for a penny, in for a pound. The damage is already done to the wall panel anyway, right? You take a few steps back and brace your arm, aiming carefully for the already-punctured wall panel. One, two, three, four. With each shot you can barely see a small arc of electricity joining the darts. At the fifth shot there is an angry-sounding pop as the darts short out and leave the wall panel sparking.

You can’t help but grin to yourself as you confirm last night’s theories. 

“Game mechanics,” you mutter as you fire another five shots into the wall. As before, as soon as five darts are grouped they detonate with a flash. Whatever is happening here, tech-wise, must be behind the stun mechanic you observed on the holovid footage.

“Five shots to stun.” You fire a single shot into the now completely warped metal, counting slowly to time the charge. “One… Two… Three…” The dart fizzles out. You fire another, testing how the shots react to each other with different timing. 

“We don’t have all day, kid. What the hell is going on down there? You aren’t on the feed yet.”

You pop the cartridge out of your gun and reload, tossing the near-empty one onto the table. “Going out now. Wish me luck!” 

The door slides open and, to your surprise, you know exactly where you are. A large yard is cut into the rock, concrete and steel painting the area in oranges and silvers. To your left a large corridor twists into the mountain itself, walled by somewhat crumbling structures and scaffolding. To your right, a large platform overlooks the sea, scorched black and ominous. There should be a rocket there, you think. This is the end of the Gibraltar payload level. You’ve seen this before.

A shot rings out and you don’t have time to react to it at all before something collides with your shoulder, knocking you spinning back into the room. A low, throbbing pain blooms from the impact. Not too terrible, but enough that you can tell there will be a bruise there later. 

“Fuckin-” you gently massage the area. “Right outside the door?  _ Really? _ ” You bring yourself to the frame and cautiously peek around, scanning the piping and platforms for any signs of enemy robots. At first nothing seems out of place, but then you catch them: Glints of sunlight reflecting off the moving metal of patrolling drones. Each and every one of them seem avoidable, except…

“There you are…” You lift your wrist and carefully aim at the robot sitting not 30 feet to your right, looking out over the yard. You can feel your heart beating in the pulsing pain from your shoulder, and the roaring in your ears. This is… Excitement? Fear? Anxiety? You take a deep breath and hold it for a few seconds. “Here we go.”

You take the shot. 

And you miss.

The bot turns and fires at you, barely missing its own shot as you duck behind a stack of crates. Well fuck, that didn’t work. Back pressed flat against the cool metal, you search for the best way on to the next area. Now that your eyes have adjusted to the sunlight you can see the sheer number of robots clustered around the area. It’s a miracle they haven’t turned and noticed you yet.

The excitement is quickly giving way to panic. If one shot had hurt enough to bruise, fifty would tear you apart. You swallow thickly, trying to keep your breathing under control. There’s no way Soldier would let them all gang up on you at once. It’s only a training exercise. A test. It’s all a game. Just think of it as a game.

And just like that, you’re back in the exercise room with that reflex simulation.

Sure, there’s no overlay or music, but if you look at it the right way this is no different than a video game with really, really good graphics. You just need to watch your head, check your corners, and never stop moving. It’s a hell of a lot easier to hit a stationary target. And so, you run. 

Shots rain down around you from the walkway overhead, but you pay them no mind as you hug the wall and slip into the next doorway. From one room to another you weave in and out of doors and behind walls, keeping a close eye for any bots and trying to control your breathing. You’ll never hear them coming if you keep breathing so hard. Even worse, they’ll hear you.

Focus. You can do this.

As you finally get your breathing under control, a patrolling bot turns the corner and nearly runs you over. You shriek and instinctively fire at it, actually managing to hit the damn thing in such close proximity. It doesn’t even get a shot off, you unload five darts into it so quickly that there is an angry pop and small trail of smoke as the hunk of metal falls to the ground, unmoving. Just to be sure it won’t be coming up behind you again, you fire a shot point-blank into its ocular sensor, shattering it in a shower of sparks. 

A part of you almost feels bad for the little robot. Almost. You rub your shoulder absent-mindedly and continue on your challenge.

The large group of bots at the gate to the checkpoint proves to be your first challenge. There’s no way you can see to get past them, and there are too many to stun with the darts. “Couldn’t have them go easy since it was my first time, Soldier?” You whisper, hoping the mic in the earpiece will pick it up without the group hearing you.

“Not a chance,” he mutters in your ear. “This is a test, don’t forget.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Pulling a few of the discs from your pockets you peek down the stairs to check that the sentries are still there. As gently as possible you toss your traps a few feet out in pairs. You flinch away as the air around you becomes almost heavy, remembering the pain of the last time you’d gotten in between two of these things. You set up a few more in similar fashion, carefully noting where they are so you can avoid them if they aren’t triggered. Minefield of sorts set up, all that’s left to do is grab their attention. 

You fire a few shots into the group, ducking back into your doorway when they finally begin their approach. There are several screeches of electronics shorting out as they get close. You scan the ground quickly to make sure none of your traps are still active before booking it through the pile of smoking bots, taking care to blind each of them, and into the next area.

This pattern repeats for the rest of the challenge. Your terrible aim gets you into a few tight spots, and you nearly trigger your own traps more than once, but somehow you manage to make it through the garage and into the final courtyard without getting shot again. Above you, cut into the rock, you can see what must be the windows of Winston’s room, if your memory if the map is correct. 

Clumsily dodging fire from a lone bot, you head around the back of a building and make for the side door, but it’s closed and won’t open. A careful glance to the main door reveals that it’s locked down as well. 

“Soldier? Doors are closed. Where am I headed?”

“How do you feel?”

“Fine? It was pretty easy once I got over being scared of getting hit. These bots are shit shots.” You laugh to yourself quietly, keeping an eye on the area in case any patrols come by. “Not that I’m much better. Got more of them with traps than with this damn thing.” You pat the gun on your wrist lightly. “Going to need practice. So let me in please.”

“We’re not done yet, agent. I promised you proper combat exercises, didn’t I?” Wait, what?  _ Did _ he promise that? Your mind is suddenly reeling as you try to remember your earlier conversation. There’s something about his tone, a bitter growl, that you really,  _ really _ don’t like. “And these bots aren’t cutting it.” 

“Soldier, let me  _ in _ .”

“No.” 

The finality of that single word hits you harder than any bullet could have.

“Consider this a live-fire exercise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh.
> 
> Cliffhangers, amirite?


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this week is special in that I’m going to be posting two chapters today! Super special thanks to the wonderful [Hanari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanari502/pseuds/Hanari502) for giving today’s update a once-over and helping me edit!
> 
> If you want, you can visit my [Discord server](https://discord.gg/BfxnRfe) so I can endlessly torture you with hints and almost-spoilers! (Except not really, I’m not that mean.) I also have my [Tumblr](http://faranaelit.tumblr.com/) where each chapter is accompanied by a small doodle and collection of my favorite comments from y'all. :)

“S-Soldier,” you stammer nervously, searching the door for some sort of access panel. “I’m definitely not ready for anything like that. I know you want me combat-ready or something but I’m not, I’m really not. Let me in, please.”

The door doesn’t budge.

“Soldier?” No response. “Jack! What the fuck, man?”

You bang your fists on the door and try to peer through the glass. “Winston, are you in your office? Winston!” You’re aware of the approaching robots as you shout at the door.

Live fire means live ammunition. Live ammunition means getting hurt. Badly.

“Jack? What the fuck are you doing? What’s going on? What do you mean ‘live-fire?’” The radio silence is deafening as you open fire on the bot that rounds the corner. A lucky shot to the ocular sensor puts it out of commission immediately. You dash away before more have the chance to approach, slipping into the nearest building and setting traps above and below all of the entrances. You’re running low on ammunition. You reload anyway.

Your heart is loud in your ears, racing and pounding. Your chest is burning. Your shoulder aches. Every muscle in your body is tense. You double check that the traps on the doors are active before lowering yourself into a crouching position behind a desk on the far wall.

“Jack I am not okay, this is not okay.” You whimper into the earpiece, peering out the open doorways and keeping your gun-arm raised and as steady as you can manage. The training bots that you can see appear to be idle, but you’re staying put just to be safe. “What’s the safeword? I want off this crazy ride if you’re bringing real bullets into the mix. _Jack!?_ ”

Where the fuck is he? Why have the comms gone completely silent?

The minutes tick by as you glare out the doorways at the idle training bots. They aren’t even patrolling any more. They’re just hovering in place. Maybe it’s safe to leave? You carefully approach the back door and level your gun at one of the lower traps, disarming it in a shower of sparks. Both discs drop to the floor.

“Huh, that actually worked,” you mutter as you disarm the second set at eye level and the ones on the stairs.

As you aim to take out the two sets of traps on the other door, the sound of boots crunching on gravel catches your attention and you freeze.

“Found you,” Soldier’s gruff voice calls through the yard. He comes into view a moment later, rifle trained on your figure as you instinctively raise your hands where he can see them. You’re sure he’s trying to look imposing, and your eyes are locked on the barrel of the gun.

“You know, I have a bit of a soft spot for vigilantes. Justice, in spite of the rules. You almost pulled the wool over my eyes.” He flicks the gun upwards slightly and you flinch. “Using your left hand, disconnect the power from your weapon. Do not lower your right arm. Do not reach for your pockets.” He barks the order with an authoritative voice and you rush to comply, fiddling with the wire that snakes from your gun and into the battery pack. It finally releases, hanging limp at your side as you raise both arms again. The material against your wrist instantly cools.

“Don’t step any closer, Jack.” You try to keep the shake out of your voice as you nod towards the traps still set on the frame. “The door-” His gun jerks to the side and fires a burst of shots. Your eyes clench shut as you curl in on yourself defensively, but there is only a soft _clunk_ as the trap below the door goes dead.

“Stand up, kid. I’m not through with you yet.” He takes another step towards the door, gun pointed directly at you once again. You’re about to warn him about the second set of traps at eye-level when he cuts you off. “You made a mistake, rookie. What’s my name?”

The question startles you almost as much as the gunfire did, and you blink at him in stunned silence.

“If you want to play that game, I’ll have you in lockup faster than you can say ‘traitor.’ _What is my name?_ ”

“J-Jack. Jack Morrison.”

“And how exactly does a rookie like you know that, huh?”

“Everyone does. It’s written in your-” He takes another step closer to the door and you take a step back yourself.

“Jack Morrison is dead. That was your first mistake. The only people who know for a fact that Soldier: 76 and Jack Morrison are one in the same,” he shakes his head slightly, “-are the veterans on this team. Last I checked, you are not one of them.” The color drains from your face as you shake your own head in return, but he continues with a deadly edge to his tone. “So I have a second question for you: Who is your target?”

“What?” Your voice is barely more than a croak as you swallow the lump in your throat. The sea breeze drifts through the open building, cooling the sweat on your neck and sending a chill down your back and arms.

There is a creak of leather as his grip tightens around his gun. “They’re too naive to realize how dangerous you are, but don’t think for a second I’ve fallen for your shit. The man behind this gun is not Jack Morrison. I’m not bound by protocol. You will not like what happens if you keep dodging the question. Who. Is. Your. Target?”

Your eyes widen as the realization dawns on you: You aren’t the first person related to Overwatch to go missing over the years. In the lore, another woman was taken by Talon and returned safely, only to murder one of the high command weeks later.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, examining his visor as if you could catch a glimpse of the eyes behind it. “You think I’m like Widowmaker.” There is a visible shift in his posture. You almost lower your arms but catch yourself. “You think I’m a… A sleeper agent or something? Holy shit Jack, I’m not gonna kill anyone!” He takes another step closer, the point of his gun shifting ever so slightly to point directly at your face. Your stomach lurches.

“Mistake two.” The edge to his voice may have sounded sharp before, but now it’s razor-like and absolutely dripping with undisguised rage. “I can count on one hand the people alive today with clearance to know the details on the Lacroix incident.”

Shit.

You stumble back another step and he adjusts himself accordingly to keep the distance between you two the same. This is bad. This is so completely and utterly fucking bad. If what you know from the game isn’t considered public information, you have no explanations to give. You have no excuses, and as such, have no safe way out of this. You have a sneaking suspicion that nothing you say will convince the old Soldier that you’re not a Talon assassin, and that you haven’t been brainwashed.

Except you _have_ been brainwashed in a way, haven’t you? Memories of events that never happened. Memories missing of events that did. But you would never kill anyone. You couldn’t. Could you?

You gulp as you remember the bomb at the Talon facility. How Junkrat and the others in the Orca had seemed so absolutely surprised when you’d opened that detonator and blown the building.

Shit.

“You look nervous, kid. Have something to say?”

Your attention is drawn back to Soldier and the gun pointed at your face. Another step forward and he’ll be in the doorway proper, in range to trigger the second set of traps he hasn’t noticed yet. The door behind you is clear. You can theoretically make a break for the other entrance, where you came in earlier.

You’ll feel bad for putting him through the pain those traps inflict, but if you can’t talk him down it looks like your only option. You know the layout of the area from in-game. The question is how far you can get before Soldier: 76 recovers from the shock, and what you’ll do once you find help.

“So I know some things I shouldn’t.” You keep your voice as level as you can, but it still manages to shake a bit. “I haven’t done anything wrong, though. You’re still Jack Morrison and that means you’re still a good person. You won’t shoot someone unarmed who hasn’t done anything-”

“Who is your target? I won’t ask again.” He’s so stubbornly set on thinking you’re a bad guy that he won’t even acknowledge your attempts at reasoning with him. He shifts his weight and you shift yours, tensing your muscles and preparing to make a break for it.

Take the step, Soldier. Just one step forward.

You can almost see his frustration building as you stand there in silence, waiting for him to make a move. His chest expands suddenly, and just as he begins to speak you make your move, releasing the built-up energy in your legs to spin and duck, making a mad dash for the door behind you.

“Dammi-”

He takes the bait, moving to pursue you but stopping short with a choked gurgle in the doorway as the unseen current takes hold. Just as you reach the far door there is an explosion of noise and color and you are knocked forward, landing hard on your hands and knees as smoking bits of metal and stone settle in the dirt around you. You scramble to your feet, ignoring the pulsing, tugging pain in your back and shoulder as you bolt along the cliffside and back through the gauntlet the way you came.

The adrenaline gets you as far as the garage before you notice the blood soaking your shirt and arm. What hit you? Did you cut yourself when you fell? Each movement of your shoulder suddenly feels as though it’s shredding muscle and shattering bone, but your consciousness seems disconnected from the pain, witnessing it second-hand as you run.

“H-help,” someone calls frantically.

You try to risk a glance back towards the yard as you enter the structure cut into the rock, but your neck feels stiff. Your arm won’t work right, either. You feel dizzy for a split moment before slamming into a wall. You didn’t even register it in front of you. You try to catch yourself as you fall to the side, but despite your best efforts your right arm just won’t listen to you.

There’s a pebble digging into your cheek. The pain feels more real than the ripping agony blooming from your back, for some reason. You try to lift yourself up but everything is spinning, so you lower your head back to the concrete and try to clear your vision.

No sign of the Soldier. The wet, dark splotches peppering the concrete behind you, however… Oh.

_Fuck._

“Please,” that someone whimpers again, her good hand reaching up to rip the comm device from her ear. “Someone, please…” She holds it to her chest like a beloved thing, a baby bird or butterfly that might flutter away at any moment. There is a mumble of static from the device that she can’t understand. _You_ can’t understand.

“H e l p . . .”

\-----

A large, steaming mug in each hand, she carefully nudges the door control with her elbow. Of course it’s likely the old man will have his own pot of coffee on, but she knows the bitter drink makes him as grumpy as it does alert. He’s been on edge since the girl was recovered. A calming cup of tea while they observe the child’s performance will definitely do him good.

“How is she holding up, Jack?”

She pauses in the doorway, greeted only by a wall of holograms and an empty chair. The smell of coffee permeates the room, a half-finished pot and cup resting on the desk beside a discarded headset.

She sets the drinks down and curiously lifts the device to her ear, single eye glittering with fury as her gaze scans the hundreds of feeds for pieces of the puzzle presented to her.

A radio control room with a sizeable smoking chunk missing from the wall.

Jack, stumbling through the yard and gripping his head.

A dark trail leading from one feed to another. She follows it through several displays before finding its source: A figure curled up against a wall, unmoving in a dark, quickly growing pool. Her eye widens as a voice whines through the headset, weak and shaking:

“Someone, please…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now you know why I’m doing a double chapter this week. I’m not that mean. Stay tuned, it’ll be up as soon as possible.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick reminder that this is the second chapter I've posted today! If you haven't already, you may want to click back to read chapter 13 first or you're going to be somewhat lost.
> 
> Also, I'm starting to feel a bit silly posting about my Tumblr and Discord all the time. Those links will be moved to the static endnotes from now on and I apologize. I'm lonely. :P

“Jack, you old fool!” She curses under her breath in her native tongue. She laments her biotic rifle’s absence from its home slung over her shoulder. The lack of weight is heavy in itself as she tosses the headset aside and bounds to the door, slippered feet sliding on the tile as she pulls her sidearm from its holster on her hip.

She moves like the wind, her training drowning out the weariness of old bones as she makes her way through the usually empty corridors of the unused research wing.

“I’m tellin’ ya mate, ‘er exact words: ‘Tell Hoggy I owe ‘im one’ she says. I reckon she’s lookin’ fer trouble, eh?” A cackle drifts past her and she tunes in to its location, adjusting her course as needed. “Oh don’t be like that ya fat fuck. She don’t need protectin’.” She slides to an almost elegant stop as she passes a branch in the hall where the two figures are approaching.

“You two,” she barks with authority. Her shout echoes through the corridor with a tone which, coming from her, surprises the two junkers wandering the halls. Junkrat nearly drops the small stack of mines in his arms and Roadhog tenses, reaching for his hook as he notices her weapon is drawn. The Rat is considerably less serious, as usual, laughing as he steadies the stack of mines.

“What’s th’rush, Nan? No alarms goin’.”

“I require your aid.” The desperate-sounding nature of the request sobers his mood immediately. When the cyclops grandma asks you to do something important, you don’t fuck around. “Now come along, with haste!” Hog follows as she dashes off again, at a slower pace so the junkers can keep up. Junkrat takes a moment to set down the batch of explosives before hobbling after the two of them as quickly as he can without tripping.

“Trouble?” Hog hefts his hook with a jingle of chain as Ana slides her card through the lock leading to the launch yard.

“Of sorts,” the door hisses open and she gives her sidearm a once-over. “You can put that away, I need your muscle, not your steel.” Hog grunts skeptically but returns the hook to its place on his belt as Junkrat catches up to the two of them.

“Yeah, I ain’t buyin’ it either big guy.” He peeks into the room, nose wrinkling as he eyes the darts peppering the wall. It’s faint, but he can smell something burning and for once he’s fairly sure it isn’t himself. “What’s goin’, Nan?”

“There is no time,” she growls as she carefully loads her weapon. “I will take care of…” She pauses for a moment and sighs, gathering her thoughts. Oh, how long it has been since she’s found herself in a situation like this. “Go directly to the garage. Your friend is injured and requires medical attention that I cannot provide. I will neutralize any threats in the yard. Do you understand?”

Rat doesn’t even wait for Roadhog, out the door and sprinting across the yard with the stomp-click-stomp-click of boot and peg on concrete. Roadie turns to Ana as he passes her. “Who was training?” Her eye narrows and she looks to the side in guilt, unable to look into his lenses.

“Someone who should not have been. You must take her directly to Angela.” He nods and she slips away, he assumes to make her own way to the other end of the gauntlet.

The blinded bots and dead mines scattered around the area don’t escape his notice as he books it through the launch yards and garage, wheezing hard and heavy through his filters. At first he is unsure of where in the garage to look, but an enraged shout quickly leads him to where Junkrat has found their target.

When he turns the corner he sees his employer crouched down and hunched over a bloody pile on the floor, hands hovering over the mess as if afraid to touch it. The jingling of his chains draws Rat’s attention away from the body, the man’s face twisted and distorted in repulsed anger.

“It weren’t me. It weren’t one of mine. You’ll tell ‘em, right Hoggie? You’ll tell ‘em it weren’t me?” His voice is higher than it should be, Hog thinks as he lowers himself to a knee to look at you closer. He can see why even Rat would be concerned with touching you, and his blood _boils_.

Your back and shoulder are a warzone of burns, jagged metal and debris, each puncture wide and gaping and oozing blood as if the metal has been twisted and pulled around. He’s been working with Junkrat long enough to know something exploded at close range. Not a bomb, not like Rat’s work. More impact. A slender metal hand grips his shoulder and he grunts, pulling away.

  
“Hog... You’ll tell ‘em, right?”

“Tell ‘em yourself,” he snorts as he carefully slips his hands under your stomach, trying his damned hardest not to jostle the debris and shrapnel. You scream, then: A pitiful, wet sound that makes even his stomach twist. Some of these pieces look pretty deep. He wouldn’t be surprised if they’d gotten to a lung through your ribs.

“Call the doc,” he huffs as he starts running to the best of his ability. “This is bad,” he lets out a wheezing cough but keeps his pace, continuing: “- But she’s seen worse. Remember Moscow?”

“Yeah mate,” Junkrat limps ahead of Roadhog as they wind through the halls toward the populated area of the Watchpoint, keeping his eyes peeled for where Athena’s network begins. He finally spots one of the black boxes, taking several seconds to remember to place his flesh hand on the scanner instead of his prosthetic.

“How may I be of assistance, agent Jun-”

“Zip it.” Hog rushes past him without pausing. “Get ol’ angel wings t’the med if she ain’t there already. We got a ‘mergency.” He twists to follow after the larger junker without waiting for a reply, and not a moment later a general alert sounds over the intercom.

Angela meets them at the door to Medical, tugging her still-dripping hair into a low ponytail and staring in horror at the mass of sobbing flesh draped over Roadie’s hands.

“ _Mein Gott!_ What did you _do?_ ”

“Oi?! **IT WEREN’T FUCKIN’ ME!!** ” He roars in response, bringing himself to full height and absolutely dwarfing the woman in front of him. She pales and backs down, his sudden hostility stunning her into silence. She unlocks the doors and points Roadhog to the beds while she rushes to one of the cabinets. The doors hiss shut in Rat’s face. He almost opens them again, but he never liked hospitals much.

He lowers back into his hunch, pulling a grenade casing from his pockets and fidgeting with it. He is vaguely aware of the small group of curious onlookers gathering at either end of the hall, but his main concern is what is happening in that room.

_“What was so bad that they paged the whole base for Mercy?”_

_“Is someone hurt?”_

The whispers from those keeping their distance and looking on from the corners start out innocent enough. As the minutes tick by and more folks show up, however, the quiet murmurs grow louder.

_“Oh my god, look at the blood!”_

_“Those were field agents, right? What happened?”_

_“Isn’t that the bomber?”_

_“What did he do this time?”_

He lets out a frustrated whine as the mutters grow more accusatory. The doors slide open and Hog shuffles out, still breathing heavy after the run across the base. The gathered volunteers flinch in unison, silencing immediately and backing off as the blood-covered bodyguard comes into view. It’s no secret in the watchpoint that nobody fucks with Junkrat, or they get Hog’s attention.

“Let her do her job,” he wheezes before breaking into a hacking fit, bent nearly double. The crowd backs off even more, and not a single person reaches forward to help him. Junkrat is there in an instant, anger replaced with worry as he pats his companion’s back.

“Easy. Movin’ quick like that’ll take a lot outta ya. Need a can?” Hog shakes his head as the coughing quickly abates. “Roight, well what now?”

“Dosed her as I was leavin’,” Roadhog mumbles quietly as he positions himself between the crowd and the door as if standing guard. “She’ll be fine.” Junkrat breathes a sigh of relief and leans on the wall beside the door, glaring at anyone brave enough to get too close. Intimidation attempts aside, the crowd finds its spine and volunteers quickly crowd the two men, pelting them with questions.

“None of ya fuckin’ business, ya buzza’ds.” Rat snaps at a particularly nosey woman intent on getting in his face. Roadhog grunts and pats a massive sticky hand over Junkrat’s shoulder, smearing blood all over it and terrifying the woman enough to melt back into the crowd. Whether the gesture is meant to be reassuring or in warning he’s not entirely sure, but Rat leans into it for a brief second.

Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream leaks through the hallway and the crowd goes dead silent. Every man and woman gathered, junkers included, turns and stares in horror at the doors.

“What-” Roadhog begins, but is interrupted as Junkrat attempts (unsuccessfully) to push past him to the door.

“OI ANGEL WINGS,” he bellows, flailing as Roadhog wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him back from the control panel. “THE FUCK’RE YA DOIN’ WITH MY WOMAN?!”

“‘Your woman’, Jamison?” Hog growls dangerously as he tosses the smaller junker aside and parks himself directly in front of the medbay access. Rat shoves a volunteer out of his way and throws himself at the door again but Roadhog doesn’t budge.

“Oh stuff it ya fat bastard, so she ain’t mine yet.” He grabs Roadie by the arm and attempts to pull him away from the controls. “You and I both fuckin’ know yer gonna’-” He is cut off suddenly by a great hand wrapped around his throat, lifting him up against the wall. Before Roadhog can respond, he is interrupted by another scream leaking through the doors, which hiss open almost immediately.

Shaking gloved hands pinch a surgical mask away from her face as Mercy scans the crowd gathered outside her doors. She leans against the frame, gaze finally settling on Roadhog. From deeper in the room behind her they can all now very clearly hear frenzied, choked sobbing.

“If you could put the boy down, I require some… Assistance.” Her exasperation is not lost on either of them, and Rat’s gaze flickers between her and Hog worriedly. “Please.”

Roadhog releases his grip on the other man’s throat, leaving a sticky matted red trail behind. Junkrat slumps to the floor, rubbing his neck and staring at Mercy, an unspoken question on his face. She shakes her head. “Remain here, please.” He knows that look. She’s afraid of something. What the fuck is going on? He thought everything was going to be fine. Wasn’t it?

The two of them disappear into Medical and the doors slide shut, drowning out the crying once again.

 

\-----

 

You’re curled around yourself and sobbing in pain on the bed when Mercy brings Roadhog in. Your harness and vest have been removed, your shirt cut away from your back, but the ugly shards still mar the surface of your skin like twisted, dead trees. He watches you shake violently as Mercy approaches the bed. He hears your muttered apologies: “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Over and over like one of the omnic monk’s mantras. The medic beckons him closer.

“Nothing I give her to numb the pain is having any effect,” she explains, gesturing to a small bin of discarded injectors. “I need to remove the shrapnel but without any painkillers she is having none of that. It is a wonder she’s so active with how much blood she has lost.” Roadhog nods in understanding, taking a moment at the large sink set against the wall to scrub his hands clean of the blood and grit. “Oh,” Mercy mumbles in pleasant surprise. “I was going to ask… Thank you. That takes care of that, at least.”

“‘M so s-s-sorry,” you moan through gritted teeth, acknowledging Hog’s presence with what he thinks is an attempt at a smile. It looks more like a grimace. “Can’t seem t-to sit st- UGH! -still.” Hands clean, he cocks his head to the side and Mercy rushes to the opposite end of the bed. Your shaking calms somewhat as he stands over you.

“D-do what you need to.” You gasp and your grip on yourself tightens for a moment before relaxing again. “I won’t. Hate you. P-promise.” He stiffens briefly at those words. How many times has he been in this exact situation with the Rat? Mercy nods at him with a sober expression and mutters her thanks for his assistance.

Gently (for him anyway) he rolls you onto your front. One massive hand pins the wrist of your damaged arm to your lower back and holds you flat against the bed as you reflexively writhe in pain and scream below him. His other hand pins your good shoulder down as well. Your legs kick below, but your injuries are held perfectly still.

“This will hurt,” Mercy gently rests a hand on your cheek, wiping away a streak of tears only for it to be replaced again. “I am so sorry.”

Roadhog tenses as the good Doctor begins her work, quickly and efficiently scanning for and removing the foreign objects from the wounds. Occasionally the screaming stops for a moment as you pass out, only to begin with renewed vigor seconds later. He finds himself wishing you would stay unconscious, if not for your own benefit, then for that of his eardrums.

Mercy is damn good at her job. It is mere minutes before she is confident all the shrapnel has been removed. A glance at the tray beside her reveals a shocking amount of metal and stone, several pieces of which are nearly as long as the doctor’s hands. She sighs in relief and peels the gloves from her hands, reaching for the Caduceus Staff leaning idly against the wall.

“There we are, I’ve got you.” The stressed edge has gone from her voice completely now, replaced by a confident and calming air as she lifts the device over you. “Almost done now. Roadhog, you may release her.”

He steps away and you curl into yourself again, the curve of your spine causing the lacerations on your back to stretch open as you hiss in pain. Regardless, without all that shit in your skin you’ve calmed down. That, or the blood loss and shock are finally catching up with you. Either way there is no more screaming, just a dull moan as you rock back and forth on the edge of consciousness.

Roadhog nods with respect as the head of Mercy’s staff begins to rotate and glow, a golden beam of healing light washing over you. A miracle of science. But then your eyes shoot open, mouth twisted in a silent shriek as you jolt and spasm beneath the luminous stream. He reacts reflexively, swearing as he shoots forward to hold you down once again, but by the time his hands have clamped over your wrists Mercy has outright dropped her staff. The clatter of metal on tile echoes through the now silent room. The second the biotic stream stops, your body goes limp beneath him.

“ _Was im…_ ”

Never has he seen the good doctor look so completely and utterly mortified. Her staff lies forgotten on the tile as she erupts in a flurry of motion, bolting from cabinet to cabinet grabbing supplies. “Scheisse!” He doesn’t like how distressed she sounds as she tosses various tools and injectors onto the table. “If I had known this would not work I would have done something earlier to stop the bleeding!”

Alright, he thinks. That’s enough.

“Angela.”

Mercy turns to look at him as she pulls a bag of fluid from a refrigeration unit. He’s not surprised in the slightest to see tears streaking down her cheeks. He doubts her tech has ever failed her quite like this. Her gaze takes a moment to take in the bright yellow cannister he’s holding.

“Oh no.” She cringes, looking at Hog as if he has three heads. “Not under my care. I am not letting you pump her full of-”

“Your tech’s not cutting it.” The statement is blunt and cold. Her eyes widen and she places the bag back in the cooler as he loosens the straps on his mask. “Five minutes,” he grunts. She sighs in defeat, staring at your limp form as she pulls the privacy curtain closed around the two of you.

He waits until he hears the door to her office slide shut before taking the mask off. He rolls you onto your side despite your muttered, barely-audible whimpers of protest. He hums in satisfaction when you weakly flinch away from his hands on your face.

Good, you’re still conscious on some level.

He presses the mask against your face, pushing it as airtight as he can before fitting a canister of hogdrogen against the intake.

“Breathe deep,” he orders. “In, out. Might hurt. Might not.”

There is an ugly wet gurgle as your chest fully expands and your good fist twists in the bloodied sheets below you. Roadhog watches you carefully as you inhale the gas, leaning over you to see your back more clearly. The skin around your wounds strains and pulls itself together as it mends, leaving behind raw-looking pinkish spots where it heals. The spots where large amounts of flesh were gouged out look angry and red as new skin and tissue grows to fill the gap.

He’s not going to lie to himself: He wasn’t entirely sure that this was going to work. In fact, it’s a miracle it is at all. The chemicals in that concoction were mixed with the rad-fucked bodies of junkers in mind. There’s no telling if it’s going to poison you. But _that_ will be the Doc’s problem.

He can see the spots where your muscle has been torn into deeply. As careful as Mercy had been in removing the debris, it had already been twisted enough to deal some serious damage. The shredded muscle might take more time to heal completely. You’ll be hurting for a while but nowhere near as badly as if you’d been left to heal naturally. He holds the pig face against yours until your breathing slows, deep and consistent.

He pulls the mask away and fastens it back where it belongs, taking a deep breath to clear the rest of the gas out of the filters. The acrid smell of blood on the inside of the leather spoils the experience somewhat, but he can still feel the rush as the residual hogdrogen takes effect. He pulls a stool over and it groans under his weight as he settles onto it. His muscles relax. His lungs burn. He lets out a sigh and releases the canister from the intake, slipping it back onto his belt to be refilled later.

“Gotta queshtun.” You’re slurring terribly and he can’t help but chuckle. It’s a wonder you’re even conscious after a hit that long.

“This’sn’t a good high, Mak _ooooh no_.” You roll onto your back with a groan, frowning at the movement and covering your eyes with your arm in an attempt to keep the world from spinning. It doesn’t work.

“That’s not a question.”

“Oh. Right.” You try to peek out at the world but everything is far too bright. “D’ya like me?” Hog just grunts in response, amused. “Th’mem’ry thing, I mean. Before. Did’ja?” He grunts again and below your arm he can see your eyebrows scrunch together in annoyance.

“Wouldn’t matter if I did.” He observes you carefully. In his experience, people are at their most honest when they’re either on the edge of death or high as a kite. And you have now experienced both of those things in a relatively short span of time. “Have an agreement.”

“Fiffy with ‘Rat, I know. ‘M askin’ anyway.”

He grunts, less as a reply this time and more an excuse to see your face twist in annoyance again. You’re almost as fun to goad as Junkrat is.

“M’offerin’, y’know… We c’n do tea.” You giggle to yourself quietly but abruptly stop and wrinkle your nose in disgust. “Why’s m’arm so sticky?”

“Blood,” he replies. You peel your forearm away from your face with a look equal parts gross-out and suspicion, squinting your eyes against the light as you examine your skin. “Yours, before you ask.” You nod in perfect acceptance of this fact and he can’t help but smirk beneath his mask. “I’m not your type, Snare.”

“Meh.”

“I’m not gentle.”

“Mhm.”

Caught on the other side of the short-responses, he feels a pang of irritation himself before realizing there’s a good chance you’re just passing out on him. “This isn’t one of your books,” he grumbles, pausing to inhale mid-sentence as he adjusts his breather for a tighter fit. “Not a game. Real people don’t change. Not for anyone but themselves.”

He lifts himself from the stool and pulls the privacy curtain open on the one side. For the second time this week, he drapes a sheet over your form and lifts you carefully, carrying you to the next bed over so you at least aren’t lying in a puddle of gore.

“Wouldn’t ask’ya to.”

He freezes in mid-movement and glares down to see you smiling up at him, euphoric and smug. This stubborn streak of yours is almost endearing. Almost. “... Talk to me when you’re sober,” he mutters in defeat.

“Will I even ‘member this conv’rsation then?”

Whatever spell you’d been weaving is broken the second you ask the question. Hog rolls his eyes behind his mask and sighs. “You ask too many questions.” He turns and leaves medical as Mercy rushes past him to check your wounds.

You’re too far gone to care.

 

\-----

 

“Congratulations, Jack.” From her perch on a nearby crate, the veteran sniper narrows her eye at him as he awakens. “In a single hour you have potentially killed a young civilian in cold blood and cost yourself the respect and trust of every young member of this team. I never took you as a paranoid old fool, but you are doing a good job of playing the part.”

Soldier pulls the now-useless dart out of his arm, shaking his head to clear the grogginess. His rifle sits at his side, out of commission until he can test what caused the Helix Rockets to misfire. His visor sits in Ana’s lap as it reboots. Despite her cold words, she’s looking at him with a soft expression, waiting patiently for his side of the story. He makes a mental note to better insulate his gear against shock.

“She’s no civ.”

“Without any memories of her training, yes she certainly is Jack.”

“She’s not right in the head, Ana. She was with them for months. Has it been long enough that you’ve forgotten about Gérard?”

“Of course I remember!” Ana gestures angrily to her eyepatch. “I will never forget! Discovering Amelie’s betrayal changed my life. Why do you think my sidearm has not left my side since they brought that girl back? But there is a time and a place for action, Jack. You should not have acted on your suspicions without _consulting the team_.”

“I’m not a part of this team. Consultation basis, remember?”

“I will call a meeting, once we ensure the girl is in good health. Or at least alive. Like it or not, you are a key part of this team’s revival. Act like it.”

He sighs and lowers his head, feeling like a scolded child.

“I fucked up, Ana.”

“Yes you did, Jack. Yes you did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile: A poor volunteer, arms overflowing with charts and schematics, nervously tiptoes around a stack of landmines sitting forgotten in a hallway.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had a rather stubborn fever/sinus headache off and on for the past week or so and it’s made sitting at a computer an exhausting experience. Rather than post a new chapter last week, I spent most of my time in a blanket burrito on the couch hydrating like crazy. (And being insane: trekking out to the mall on Switch release day, which was worth it by the way.) That said, I’m back to normal at this point! Enjoy this extra-length chapter as an apology. :)

To say you feel like shit could quite possibly be the understatement of the century.

Your mind is foggy and exhausted. Your thoughts are drifting around and cutting off without warning, intersecting and going every which way at once like a dream gone bad. One thought is a constant, however: You _hurt_. Your right shoulder aches with a dull tugging pain and the back of your hand stings something awful. Your face and neck feel warm. Your chest feels tight. The pillow under your head is damp with sweat.

Cracking your eyes open to take in your surroundings is a chore, but you manage to shake off the heavy feeling long enough to peer at the room around you. Blue and white and gray. Machinery. The unmistakable smell of sterility. You can hear someone snoring lightly nearby.

You’re in a hospital. It takes a moment for sheer _panic_ to follow that realization. As if in slow motion your thoughts flit to home, a groggy thought process connecting dots that may not exist before the thought is lost again to obscurity. That’s all you can process before your brain sluggishly reminds itself that you’re someplace familiar.

Medical. You’re in Angela’s medbay. Why are you in medical?

You’re vaguely aware of the padded cuffs binding your wrists to the bed, but more concerned with the resulting hinderance to scratching your itching hand than the fact that you’re tied down. A small thought drifts past, trying to remind you that being tied down in a hospital is not normal, but the IV in your hand is just so _annoying_.

You tug at your wrists weakly and the form at your side jolts awake just as the fever pulls you back into unconsciousness.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“Ah, she is conscious again.” Angela taps at her tablet, a live feed displaying your vitals as Hana leans over in her seat to peek. “Never mind. There she goes. I do hope this meeting ends swiftly. I am uncomfortable leaving her alone.”

The meeting room is a white noise of murmurs and whispers as people file in one after another. On the wall, a line of holodisplays shimmer brightly as agents still stationed in the field tune in; McCree looks half-asleep, the room around him dark and grainy as he fiddles with the settings on his feed. Pharah taps in through a Helix Securities line, the bright Cairo sun streaming in through a window beside her. Reinhardt chatters excitedly through his display as Torbjörn nods along. Mei appears to be linked in from a tent, the canvas backdrop shuddering against an intense wind as she types away on a laptop.

Angela smiles to herself. Despite the circumstances, it is quite nice to have everyone together in spirit. Her smile widens as Genji and Zenyatta enter the conference room and take the seats directly behind her.

“So when can we visit?”

Her thoughts are drawn back to the conversation at hand as Hana tugs at the tablet for a closer look. Angela pulls the device against her chest in response. The younger woman huffs and crosses her arms, much to Lúcio’s amusement next to her.

“We shall see. She will need to regain consciousness fully before I will even consider allowing visitors. Asking me on the hour will not change that decision.”

Hana pouts. “You let Jamie and Hog visit.”

“Roadhog is consulting on her condition.” The doctor rolls her eyes. ‘Consulting’ is one way to put it, when he’s the one who caused the poor girl to fall ill in the first place. She turns to wave politely at the new arrivals while continuing her train of thought. “Junkrat is… persuasive. You know full well those two will not be separated when they put their minds to it.”

The lopsided grin on Lúcio’s face perfectly compliments the mischievous glimmer in Hana’s eyes as the young woman innocently adjusts the hem of her skirt over her knees. “So what you’re saying is we have a chance to get in, we just need to bug you nonstop like Rat-boy does. Got it.”

Angela sputters in frustration as the two laugh.

“She is doing her best to aid Snare’s recovery,” Genji moves in for the save. “You should not hinder her efforts.” Zenyatta nods sagely beside him, and Angela smiles back at the two in thanks. “Besides,” he continues, “it is _my_ job to pester Angela.” Her smile drops instantly as the cyborg’s running lights pulse with mirth.

Any clever comeback she has is lost as Winston clears his throat at the front of the room. The agents mingling find their seats and the room quickly goes silent as all attention is focused on the front of the room where Winston stands with Ana and Soldier: 76. She sighs as she thinks about how this meeting might go, and how decisions made behind closed doors will affect morale.

“Good morning, everyone.” Winston clears his throat again and glances down at an index card before continuing: “Before we begin, I would like to ask that all unofficial field agents please leave. I’m terribly sorry, you will receive your briefing at the volunteers’ meeting this afternoon.” Several people stand and wordlessly file out of the room, exchanging confused glances.

Winston waits patiently for the door to close, scanning to take attendance. “Rutledge,” he voices carefully once the last volunteer has left, “Where is agent Fawkes?” In the back of the room, Roadhog shrugs and grunts noncommittally. Winston adjusts his glasses and sighs in defeat.

“Alright then. Thank you for coming, everyone.” He looks over to the veterans sharing the raised platform with him and Ana nods. “I know you were expecting a meeting regarding the successful extraction of Agent Snare four days ago, and I apologize that it is taking Athena and I so long to break the encryption on the drive that was recovered during that mission. In the meantime, there is some information that needs to be shared among all of you.”

Nearly everyone present is deathly still as Winston briefly recounts the details of your rescue, even those who were a part of the mission and experienced it firsthand. Even McCree, ever the slacker, is leaning in closer to the camera with his face scrunched in concentration as Winston describes the ominous Talon medical facility and the grunts stationed there.

There is a certain air of discomfort hovering over the room as Winston details the specifics of your condition; how your memories are seemingly stuck sixty years in the past. He explains how until the drive can be accessed, they have no way of knowing the purpose of the simulation Talon had you trapped in.

“With that said,” Winston shifts nervously as he lowers his index cards. “Some of you may be wondering why the combat-able volunteers were asked to leave the room. Ms. Amari, if you would please…” Winston leaves the platform and takes a seat among the assembly of agents. Some gazes follow him questioningly, but he busies himself with cleaning his glasses. Ana steps forward and her posture changes suddenly from that of a kindly woman to a military professional.

“Thank you Winston.”

When Ana Amari speaks, it is advised one listens. She glances around the room to ensure that every eye is focused on her before she speaks.

“The information I am about to share with you all is not public knowledge and certain details are highly classified and only known to a select few. I would ask that what is said today does not leave this room, unless it is to relay the information to agents not currently present.” Despite her stance, her voice is grandmotherly as she pauses and takes in a nod of confirmation from everyone in the room. She nods herself and continues:

“Many of you know full-well the name of Gerard LeCroix.” She takes a moment then, trying to ignore the pained looks suddenly glaring back at her from the veterans among the agents.

“Back in the glory days of Overwatch Gerard was the spearhead of the effort to curb Talon’s terrorist actions worldwide. Many of you know he was murdered, and many of you know that his family went missing afterwards. As far as the world is concerned, this was a strategic act of elimination by Talon’s operatives-”

“Ana,” Reinhardt’s voice carries through the speakers on the wall despite his hushed tone. She holds a hand up to silence him and continues through the interruption.

“What is not public knowledge, but known to our agents, is that Amélie Lacroix, Gerard’s wife, went missing several weeks before Gerard’s assassination. It was a deliberate act by Talon in an attempt to weaken the unit tasked with battling their activities. She was recovered with little incident after Overwatch launched a full-scale operation to return her safely. She was debriefed after her rescue, given a clean bill of health, and went back to live her life. When Gerard was killed, we took her disappearance as another attempt by Talon to weaken the team.”

Ana takes a deep breath, for a moment looking as aged as a woman six decades old should.

“It was two years later I discovered that Amélie was quite alive. I paid for that discovery with my eye.”

The room erupts into whispers as the younger generation talks amongst themselves. Rather than silencing them, Ana simply stands and waits for them to quiet down.

“No doubt you are putting two and two together.” The sniper’s words are carefully selected as she observes the collection of agents, old and new. “My eye was taken from me during a deadly battle with one of Talon’s best assassins. That assassin is well known to some of you-”

“No!” Lena stands from her seat suddenly, visibly shaking. Ana nods in response. The other veterans on the team sit stunned with eyes wide and angry. Reinhardt stands silently and walks off-screen.

“No way no how.” McCree leans in closer to the camera, cigar forgotten as his eyes flicker across the display on his end. “That murderous blue bitch ain’t Gerard’s lady. She was a lovely lil’ thing. Sweeter than honey.”

“Now please understand,” Ana continues in a sad tone. “There is a reason I’m telling you this: The rumor mill has been turning in regards to yesterday’s incident and why Agent Snare has been confined to Angela’s facilities. While her injuries were a terrible accident, certain information has come to light and we are left wondering how it is that Snare is aware of details that even some Overwatch elites did not know until today.”

Several people move to speak, but Ana again raises her hand to indicate she is not finished.

“Athena has been instructed to keep all of your dormitories under lockdown in the evening. Door functions will require authorization from each room’s occupant. Currently assigned keycards are no longer valid and will need to be reissued; biological or retinal scan access only. I am not done, miss Song. Sit down please.”

Hana lowers herself back into her seat guiltily.

“Now, we may have suspicions that she has been subjected to this conditioning, but we do not have any proof.” Ana glares at Soldier. “The girl’s condition is… Unique. Amélie Lacroix was placed in our ranks as if nothing had ever changed. Snare has no memory of her training- of you- whatsoever. These are merely precautions. Winston?”

Winston steps once again to the front of the room as Ana returns to standing at Soldier’s side. The index cards in his hands are now crumpled to hell, a clear sign of his irritation. Despite this, he speaks clearly and calmly as he addresses the room:

“To recap, we have no reason to believe that Agent Snare is a threat in her current condition. However as a precaution for the duration of her stay in the Watchpoint, Athena will be ramping up security. For everyone’s safety, please avoid any prolonged encounters with Snare without a weapon on-hand or another agent present.”

Roadhog stands suddenly, his chair groaning with the removal of his weight. He leaves the room as swiftly as a man of his size can, shoving an irritated Torbjörn out of his way in the process.

“Oh dear,” Winston grumbles. “I suppose we know where Junkrat is now… Angela?” The medic glances at her tablet and shakes her head, confirming that there has been no unusual activity on your vitals.

“Let me get this straight,” McCree’s voice sounds over the speakers, snapping everyone back to the topic at hand. “There’s a chance that Snare’s been conditioned as a sleeper agent, she may well be trying to spy on us or kill us all, and you’re just lettin’ her run around unchecked.”

Winston pushes his glasses up and nods. “We have no reason to believe that she is a danger, only slight suspicions based on past Talon activities. There is no way to tell if she has been conditioned in any way until Athena can access the drive pulled from her cell. Would you suggest we keep a potentially innocent civilian under lock and key until then?”

“She sure as shit ain’t one of us anymore, big guy.” The mood in the room shifts from discomfort to hostility in a heartbeat. “If she ain’t rememberin’ anything but that dream world of hers, she has no place even bein’ in that base. At least assign her a watch or somethin’, someone that can do what needs doin’ if it comes to that. Someone who can take her out easy-like if she makes a move. Don’t put everyone at risk on a hunch. That’s usually my gig, Winston.”

Genji stands and Winston gestures to him for a chance to speak.

“You would assign an assassin to watch our friend and colleague?” Despite his calm stance, there are razors in the cyborg’s words and murmurs of agreement from the assembled agents. “What you are suggesting sounds very much like Blackwatch work, Jesse-”

“ **Alright, that’s enough!** Sit down and shut up. All of you, bickering like children.”

All goes silent once again as Soldier: 76 steps forward to address the room.

“If she were an immediate risk, she would have fallen back on her old training yesterday when her life was genuinely under threat. She didn’t. I’m not too proud to admit that I fucked up yesterday, but it did give us valuable insight on that point.”

His visor glints dangerously as he pauses, daring anyone to interrupt him. After a few moments he continues, his voice dripping with a specific authority that only a few of the agents present would ever recognise.

“Winston and Ana have it right. We watch, we wait, and we cover our asses. Even if she’s not an agent any more, the risk that she’s been tampered with is too great to put her back into the civilian populace just yet. This is the safest place for her for the time being. Any questions?”

 

 

\-----

 

 

The tugging at your wrists and the harsh sound of ripping velcro pulls you back into the waking world once again. You immediately rub at your eyes, thankful that you can at least move your arms again. Of course, you instantly regret the motion as you jostle the IV attached to your hand.

“Ow,” you groan miserably, pulling yourself into a sitting position and flinching as your shoulder tugs the wrong way and your perception lurches. You bring your good hand up to grab your head in an attempt to stop the spinning. “Fuck me sideways, what train hit me?”

“Full can’ll do that.” You jump at the voice and finally look over to see Junkrat sitting at your side, fiddling with a restraint attached to the bed rail as he giggles to himself quietly. “G’day!”

“… Hi?”

He pauses at your brief response and looks up, wide amber eyes studying your own for some glimmer of recognition. The moment passes and, content, he leaps off the stool and through the privacy curtains.

You can’t help but laugh at his haste. “And bye?”

“Keep yer tits on, I’m comin’ back.”

“Oh my god?” Laughing hurts, but you can’t help giggling at the ridiculousness of it all. A quick minute later he charges back in and practically throws a glass of water into your arms, looking up at you expectantly until you bring the cup to your lips. As soon as you stop laughing enough to start drinking, he jumps back onto the stool and leans against the bed with a grin.

“Merc’ nearly had to do the fucky blood switcheroo business with ya,” he chatters as you gulp down the cool water greedily. “But seein’ as how you lost most of that, she figured pumpin’ ya back full of fluid would do the trick. Dilute what’s makin’ ya sick, right? Crazy.”

Lost most of what? Your blood? Your gaze is drawn to the IV trailing from your hand to a bag hanging overhead. Oh.

_Soldier_. What happened? Were you shot?

Your distressed expression as you recall your close encounter with a pulse rifle and the following events doesn’t go unnoticed. A warm hand pats down on your leg and he shifts awkwardly to be in your direct field of vision.

“Calm down Sheila. Still feelin’ the can?”

“The what?” You aren’t sure if the strange question was a genuine attempt at distraction or not, but it certainly worked.

“Roadie’s gas.” Junkrat rolls his eyes and returns to hunching comfortably when he’s sure you’re still with him. “ _Hogdrogen_ , he calls it. Name’s too fuckin’ long. Shit’ll fuck you right up. I’ve gotten a hit me’self once or twice, never a full can though. Seein’ what happened to _you_ I think it’s bettah kept that way. Poison that heals. Who’da thought, eh?”

It takes a bit of thinking for your brain to catch up to his verbal diarrhea.

“So Hog… Healed me? But it made me sick? Am I getting that right?”

“Right! Nearly fixed that bit, if ol’ angel wings is right.” He reaches forward and takes your empty glass before ducking out the curtain again. This time you can clearly hear the sound of running water.

You remember Soldier: 76 confronting you, and you remember running. There’s a large chunk missing, and then there’s Roadhog, and then… Oh no. You feel completely ridiculous now. You asked the big bad one-man apocalypse out to tea. And he said he’d consider it, you think. Or did you dream that part?

You’re snapped out of your thoughts again as a fresh glass of water is shoved under your nose. You mutter your thanks and take a few sips before another thought dawns on you.

“Why was I tied down?”

Junkrat stops where he’s toying with the velcro straps and giggles with a guilty-looking grin. “No idea! They was there when I slipped in? The team’s at a meetin’, the doc included.” His voice pitches upwards slightly in a terrible attempt at an accent you can’t place.

“Don’t leave live landmines in the ‘alls, Junkrat! Those dismantled ‘bots’ll come outta yer pay, Junkrat! This is a sterile environment, Junkrat!” He breaks into a fit of cackling and you can’t help but laugh along with him. “I’ve ‘eard it all. I’ll spend me time where I like, not in some stuffy meetin’ about a mission I was fuckin’ _there_ for-”

He stiffens as the sound of the doors sliding open drifts through the room, but relaxes just as quickly when the distinct jingle of Roadhog’s chains follows. The relief is short-lived as the curtains are thrown to the side and Roadie, scrapgun in hand, shoves Junkrat out of his way to an exclamation of “what the fuck mate?” The smaller junker clatters to the floor along with the stool with a string of curses.

“Holy shit, Rat are you oka-” You are interrupted as Roadhog pinches your chin between two massive fingers, tilting your face up to look at him as he shoves the barrel of his scrapgun against your chest. You can feel the cool metal through the thin hospital smock. “Scratch that,” you squeak. “Roadie, are _you_ okay?” You can see your reflection, distorted by the curve of the lenses on his mask.

He remains silent, studying you carefully as you stare at him in surprise. He was always so nice to you. What in the hell brought this on? Behind him, Junkrat stands and hefts the toppled stool with a furious glare.

“Ya rude ol’ fuck!” Hog doesn’t even flinch as the woven metal bounces off of his back and Junkrat has to swerve to dodge the rebound. “If you wanted time with her ya could’a fuckin’ asked.” His face twists in confusion as he notices the weapon in Hog’s hand and he backs off a step with a mutter of “oh, yer workin’.”

Finally, after what feels like an age, Roadhog speaks.

“You scared?” he rumbles under his breath. You swallow and return to glaring right back at him. Despite the gun pressing into your chest, for some reason you aren’t as afraid as you should be. This isn’t like Soldier. This is something different that you can’t quite put your finger on. Is he trying to drive a point home? You distinctly remember him trying to convince you he wasn’t a nice person.

“Should I be?” You answer the question with a question and Hog doesn’t seem to like that too much. He jerks the scrapgun upwards, nestling the barrel directly against your throat and eliciting a growl from Junkrat behind him. Something sharp pokes against the tender flesh there and you find yourself afraid to swallow.

“How ‘bout now.”

It doesn’t escape you that this is a startling reflection of your encounter with Soldier. You work your jaw slightly, testing Hog’s grip on your chin and choosing your next words very carefully. Something has him upset, but what? What have you done to anger this behemoth?

Why not just ask him?

“If I’ve fucked something up Hog, please just tell me so I don’t have to guess.” You can feel a trickle of sweat running down your temple, though if it’s from the fever or the stress you can’t be sure. “I’m shit at guessing games.”

And just like that, Roadhog lowers the gun and releases your chin. You reach up with your good hand and massage your throat as he takes the fallen stool and lowers himself onto it. Junkrat stomps up to him and squints comically between the two of you, obviously as confused as you are.

“Fuck was that, ya fat bastard?” Rat pulls a second stool over and glares at Hog as he takes a seat on your other side.

“What’s up, Roadie?” Your question is considerably less crude.

Roadhog reaches over you and plucks your half-full glass from the table. Those two are more alike than they let on, you think. Under different circumstances you’d ask. You take the glass from him reluctantly and just as with Rat he doesn’t speak until you’ve begun to drink.

“Not gonna shit ya,” he starts as he leans his weapon against the base of the bed. “Order’s out to have you watched.” He sighs, low and wheezing, as you nod in understanding. After your ‘talk’ with Soldier, it makes sense that some others would share his suspicions.

Junkrat on the other hand seems confused as ever. “The fuck’s that gotta do with you burstin’ in here guns blazin’?” His face scrunches up and he pokes a finger accusingly at Roadhog.

“Think Talon’s programmed her. Sleeper agent.” Hog crosses his arms over his gut and you can almost feel the frown in his posture despite being unable to see his face. You nod again.

“Widowmaker. Can’t blame them.”

“Yeah.”

Junkrat growls in frustration and fidgets with the cuffs on the bed again. “What, Talon’s sniper bitch? What about her?” Roadhog reaches over the bed and cuffs him upside the head, albeit gently.

“Idiot. Come to the meetings.”

You cut off Junkrat’s reply swiftly to avoid the high chance his screeching reply might worsen your headache. “She used to be an Overwatch agent. She killed one of the bigwigs and ran off to join the other side.” You turn to Hog as Junkrat processes that information. “So what, am I gonna be under lock and key now? Are they going to just kill me outright?”

Hog shakes his head. “Dorms on lockdown. Don’t get caught unarmed. Basic shit.”

Rat finally catches on. “Wait, yer tellin’ me these cunts think she’s some psycho killer? Sent to knock us all off?” Roadhog grunts in response and you cover your amused smile with your hand. Leave it to Junkrat to make a topic so serious sound completely ridiculous. He cackles then, a full-body laugh that shakes the bed and echoes through the room.

“That’s hilarious!” He shouts in between breaths. “I’ve got more malice in me left nut than she’s got in her whole body!” He howls with laughter, clutching his side. Even Roadie huffs out a low chuckle at that, turning his mask to make it crystal clear his attention is on you.

“Do me a favor?” You can barely hear him over Junkrat’s laughing, but you stifle a chuckle yourself and nod at him.

“Of course. What’s up?”

“If you’re gonna knock one of us off,” he cracks his knuckles and jabs a thumb in Rat’s direction as the smaller man falls off his stool, still laughing hysterically. “Do him first so I can be the one to wring your pretty neck.”

You’re pretty sure the warmth spreading across your chest and cheeks is _not_ from the fever. You choose to take that threat as a compliment. It’s better that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m pretty sure Junkrat is the most precious thing on the planet, by the way. Despite how much malice may or may not be contained in his left testicle.
> 
> Thanks again to Hanari for giving this chapter a read-through for errors!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I’m not going to be super active on the writing front this week/weekend as my birthday is on the 23rd! 
> 
> I’ve added a few details this chapter in an attempt to drive home that secrets are being kept in the Watchpoint. I hope it clears a few things up! Please try to keep in mind that everything is happening for a reason. It doesn’t all have to make sense now. Just enjoy the ride. :)
> 
> (Also, if you aren't poking the story on Tumblr, this chapter's [doodle](http://faranaelit.tumblr.com/post/158685296076/watch-your-step-part-16) still makes me giggle like an idiot.)

The next four days are a blur of rushed get-well-soon visits from various agents and volunteers, physical therapy for your shoulder, blood tests, and iron supplements. Angela has made it her personal mission to determine why your body rejected her biotic healing, and she is growing increasingly frustrated that she cannot determine the cause. There has been talk of borrowing Ana’s injectable biotic fluid, but concerns over your potential reaction have thankfully stalled that idea.

The fever is long gone and you are well on your way to a full recovery, yet still you find yourself sleeping most of the day away when Angela isn’t fretting over you. It should surprise you, you think, how frequently you wake to find the junkers in your room despite the doctor’s insistence that you be left to rest.

You aren’t complaining: The few times you’ve woken up without anyone in the room, your hands have been cuffed to the bed. If their company means freedom of movement, you’ll welcome them with open arms. Even if Angela always comes back eventually to scold them.

What does surprise you however is the sheer flood of visitors, coming two-by-two to wish you well. Hana and Lucio had been expected, as had Zenyatta, but the large groups of volunteers you had never met? That was a shock. Group after group, all wanting to introduce themselves and make sure you were alright after your accident.

Of course, it didn’t escape your notice that they were all armed in some capacity. Hana and Lúcio explained on their visit that Winston is using this as an opportunity to issue sidearms and special training to the volunteers, a way to implement safety measures without causing mass panic. That gives you comfort, in a way: While the official field agents know that you are the cause of the order, it seems they are the only ones.

For now.

And so it is that you are sitting on the edge of the bed conversing with a particularly chatty pair of young Korean men, brothers from the look of them, in mechanic’s coveralls. It takes a few minutes for them to stop glancing nervously to where Junkrat lays sketching on a spare bed, frag launcher at his side, but eventually they start gushing about how not a day has gone by since they arrived a few months ago that Torbjörn hasn’t complained about your absence.

“You are a legend!” One of the boys laughs. He pitches his voice down, in a gravelly impression of the Swede: “It is always ‘Snare would have put that tool away properly’ or ‘if Snare were here she would fix that in a heartbeat!’ We cannot get him to acknowledge a perfect weld, but then off he goes singing your praises!” The other brother nods enthusiastically along as the two trade stories about daily life in the workshop.

“We know you have a lot of memory loss,” the smaller of the two suddenly sounds very serious as he leans forward on his stool. Behind them, Junkrat stiffens and his pencil goes still. “But it is a lot like riding a bike. Once Mercy sets you free, you should stop by the workshop. Your station is still set up, you know.”

You nod and smile. “Torbjörn told me you guys haven’t dismantled it. I’ll have to pay the grumpy old man a visit at some point anyway, eh?” The boys both grin and nod, standing and bowing slightly before leaving the medical center as Angela returns with tea in hand. You stretch your back and rotate your shoulder a few times before standing, thankful you are no longer bound to the bed by an IV.

“I was wondering when those two would visit,” Angela pipes up from her office as she sets down her drink. “Most of the volunteers stationed in the workshop idolize you, in a way.” Junkrat titters and rolls his eyes.

“Mostly ‘cause the dwarf won’t shaddap about’cha.” You take a peek at Junkrat’s notebook, trying and failing to decipher the schematics he’s working on. “I should know, I’ve gotta put up with it on the daily.”

“The irony.” Hog mumbles from behind his book across the room.

Rat doesn’t seem to hear him, instead excitedly poking the business-end of the pencil at a series of doodles and strings of numbers on the page. “Gonna have to again, if I wanna test this beaut’. Gonna be glad when you’re outta here. I’m gettin’ antsy.”

“You’re always antsy.” You smirk and cross your arms with some difficulty, your shoulder tugging uncomfortably as he gasps in mock offense.

“Why I nevah-” You cock an eyebrow and he snorts with a shrug. “Alrigh’ that’s fair. That’s fair.” He flips the notebook shut and hops off the bed, popping his spine before yelling towards Angela’s office: “Oi Doc! When _can_ she leave anyways?”

Through the glass you can see the doctor pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. This is a conversation that has occurred multiple times a day since you were well enough to stand. Much to your surprise, instead of her usual deflection she stands and comes to the door so she doesn’t have to raise her voice.

“I suppose she is progressing at a satisfactory rate. By the end of the week, I’d say. On the condition that I have enough samples to continue my research and she checks in daily for her physical therapy.” You turn towards her, eyes wide with disbelief. From the elated squeak beside you, it seems Junkrat was not expecting that response either. Roadhog actually looks up from his book and fixes his gaze on her.

She sighs in defeat and shakes her head before smiling at you. “This whole mess is uncalled for. You are not a prisoner. I must insist however that you refrain entirely from any exertion.” She pauses a moment, glancing at Roadhog. “May I speak with you in private, please?” He tilts his head in confusion for a moment, but then marks his page and shuffles into the office. Angela shuts the door behind him.

You and Junkrat watch through the glass as she invites him to sit at her desk, taking a seat herself and pulling a file from one of the drawers.

“Fifty creds says she’s askin’ ‘im to babysit ya.” He nudges you and grins playfully. You roll your eyes and nudge him back.

“I’m not taking that bet, I’m broke remember?” His grin only widens. “Besides, you’re probably right.” You smile in return and hop back up onto the edge of the bed, finding it much more comfortable to sit on than the stools scattered around the large room.

“Scratch that,” Junkrat mumbles, smile falling as he watches the two talk in the office. You glance over but can’t see what the issue might be. Roadhog is just sitting with his back to the glass as Angela speaks. Rat squints and crosses his arms, suddenly quiet. “Roadie’s mighty ticked.” You look from him to the window again, but nothing seems out of place.

“What do you mean-” no sooner are the words out of your mouth than Roadie stands suddenly, knocking his chair askew. Angela waves her hands in a pacifying motion as he grabs the file from in front of her, leafing through its contents. Through the glass you can hear muffled arguing.

“What in the world-”

“Shh.” Junkrat cuts you off, lips moving soundlessly as he stares with sudden focus at the two in the office. He shifts to the side slightly, you think to get a better look at Angela. Hog throws the file down on her desk and she wags a finger at him in a scolding manner as they argue. Beside you, Junkrat’s scowl is almost comical.

“Get dressed,” he says suddenly as he pulls a duffel bag from under the bed he’s been using as a base of operations for his visits. Inside, next to a pile of (hopefully empty) grenade casings and snack bags is a set of clothes and the sandals from your room. He quickly tugs the privacy curtain closed around your bed just as the door to Angela’s office opens.

You change out of the hospital smock in record time, trying to ignore that one of the Junkers had to have gone through your unmentionables to bring you the matching set of undergarments. You silently hope it was Hog and not Junkrat going through your things.

“We are not done-” Angela is saying as the door slams shut again, cutting her off. A moment later it opens and you can hear the clack of her heels as she enters the clinic proper. “That was uncalled for. You know full well that- What are you doing?”

You zip the duffel closed and pull the curtain back, taking in the tense scene before you: Junkrat looks strangely defensive as he slouches beside the opening in the curtain, while Hog stands defiantly by the exit with his hand over the door controls. Angela turns to you and her lips press into a thin, annoyed line. Junkrat holds his hand out for the bag and you pass it over, shrugging apologetically at the doctor.

“Very well,” she says in a controlled and measured tone. “My instructions stand! You _will_ check in daily!” She looks to Roadhog then, something in her eyes you can’t quite place. “If anything more happens it is on your head,” she crosses her arms and sighs. “You are too stubborn for your own good. All of you, I swear. The entire watchpoint.”

Junkrat grabs your arm then, tugging you towards the doors and Roadhog. The two seem to exchange a look, Rat nodding as the doors open.

“Try to have fun, Snare.” You turn to Angela as you pass, still confused as to what is going on but rolling with it. “Don’t let them get into too much trouble,” she says, smiling knowingly despite her obvious frustration.

You manage to call out a “Thanks, Angie!” before the doors shut behind you and the junkers. As soon as you’re in the hallway Junkrat releases your arm with a quick apology himself and hobbles forward to catch up to Roadhog. The larger man looks back at you before addressing his employer:

“You catch that?”

Rat shrugs and shakes his head. “Only bits ‘n pieces. Who are we not killin’ and why’s it matter to her?”

“Doc thinks the accident _wasn’t_.”

“Wot.” Junkrat growls then, not the usual high-pitched gurgle of frustration but low and dangerous in his throat. “Talon? Why didn’t they tell us? The ape keepin’ secrets? Knew they’d come lookin’ fer-” His rambling is silenced as Hog clamps a massive hand over his face.

“Stop talking.”

Roadhog looks back to where you’re lagging behind and gestures with his other hand for you to walk up beside the two of them. You bring yourself forward just as Hog pulls his hand away from Junkrat’s shit-eating grin, a trail of saliva smearing his palm. He makes a sound of obvious disgust and you can’t help but snicker. Junkrat grins even wider before the distraction wears off and he remembers why he was angry in the first place.

“So what th’fuck is it then?”

You shudder as you think back to the incident a few days ago and Ana’s rough account from her end. “Soldier,” you mumble. Rat’s eyebrows shoot upwards but you rush to backpedal before he goes overboard: “It was still an accident! Also may have been my fault. I kinda… Trapped him? A bit?” You run your hands through your hair as you walk, trying to think back to what Ana had told you during her visit.

It was supposed to be kept under wraps to prevent discord, but you really don’t see the benefit of lying to the junkers. It will all come out eventually, and when it does you’d rather not be seen as the girl who went along with the subterfuge.

“I don’t remember much, but Ana says the tech in his gun didn’t get along too well with the shock trap things. The jackass shouldn’t have had me cornered in the first place though.” You huff stubbornly and tug your tender shoulder this way and that as you walk. “Rockets meet old-ass building, shrapnel meets shoulder. The rest is history. If I hadn’t run off like I did it wouldn’t have been as bad.”

You stop walking at that, focusing for a moment on the dull pain as you stretch the joint.

What is wrong with you? You don’t have to defend Jack, especially not at the cost of blaming yourself. You’re allowed to get angry. Where’s that determined spark when you really need it? Why aren’t you angry?

“How th’fuck ain’t you livid?”

You look up from your internal monologue and into twin pools of bloodshot amber. When did Junkrat get so close? He’s leaning to your level, eyes wide and confused as he studies you. You shake your head and look beyond him to where Roadhog stands, gazing down the hall.

“I have no idea, and it’s annoying.” Despite not looking in your direction, Hog huffs a brief laugh.

“Fair ‘nuff,” Rat grins in complete acceptance and spins in place on his peg before limping down the hall towards Roadhog again. “So that’s who we’re not killin’, then? No promises,” he says matter-of-factly. “After all that work I put into scrappin’ those bots, too. Even got ya a souvenir!” He digs in one of the side pockets of the duffel and tosses a glinting object back over his shoulder and you scramble forward to catch the thing.

Opening your hands, it takes a few moments for recognition to set in. Cradled between your palms is a metal cylinder, no bigger than your thumb. Small brightly-colored wires snake out of one end, braided intricately and knotted to a makeshift keychain. The other end houses a disc of yellow glass, cracks webbing through it from a small puncture. A maniacal grin is painted over the glass in thick white paint, the tiny hole acting as one of its eyes.

Without the bulky housing it is almost unrecognizable but you’re pretty sure…

“Is this one of their fucking _eyes?_ ” The hall is echoing with your laughter as you rush to catch up to the two. “Did you seriously butcher an entire squad of robots to-” You take a second to collect yourself, trying and failing to keep your shit together. “To defend my honor? Really?” You snort and stuff the souvenir into the pocket of your pants.

The grin he shoots your way is downright endearing. “Yu-p!” He pops the ‘p’ as he says it before breaking into a fit of giggles.

“Junkrat that is fucking amazing.”

The pink tinting his ears adds to the look and you grin yourself in response.

“Wait here,” Roadie calls from ahead as he ducks into a room. You stop in your tracks and take in your surroundings, deducing from the layout that you’ve been led to an unfamiliar section of the agent quarters. Junkrat of course ignores the order and walks up to poke his head through the door. A moment later he stumbles back as Roadhog reappears with a set of keys in his fist and a grumble of “alright, let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” You can’t help but pry. Junkrat turns to you with eyes wide and a grin splitting his face in two. He closes the gap between you with an agility no man possessing only one leg should have, swinging an arm over your shoulder and pulling you in close. You nearly pull away reflexively, but with the excitement of a kid at Disney he swings his other arm wide and proclaims a single word:

“Tea!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile in the workshop, no less than 5 volunteers have been assigned to polishing duty indefinitely after daring to call out Torbjörn for ordering Snare’s station to be cleaned for the fourth time this week. 
> 
> After complaining about their insubordination to his wife, her and the children have made it their personal mission to tease him mercilessly for it during their video calls.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should go without saying, but violence in a relationship, be it romantic or platonic, is usually not okay. The defining factor is informed consent.
> 
> I’ve had a couple small messages expressing concern over Hog’s habit of cuffing Jamie (and one about Jamie’s stool-throwing). Since that physical, semi-violent contact pops up briefly in this chapter again I wanted to state this very clearly: The actions between Jamie and Hog are entirely consensual. They each know how durable the other is. On that note though, they also know how far is too far and it’s a line they don’t cross. 
> 
> I’ll touch more on this dynamic later, likely after the rating changes (ayy), but I thought it was important to mention a bit about it now since some folks are showing concern. Especially since it’s been brought to my attention that a few of you lovelies are actually reading despite being unfamiliar with Overwatch and its characters (which is very flattering by the way).
> 
> (And I feel the need to mention that [this chapter's doodle over on Tumblr](http://faranaelit.tumblr.com/post/159043155626/watch-your-step-part-17) is freakin' adorable and mostly inspired by honeybucky's comment last chapter)

You didn’t think it was possible for the two junkers to engage in any form of stealth, but as it stands they’re proving you very much wrong. While Junkrat makes a show of checking corners and acting as theatrical as possible, Roadhog simply meanders at his own pace, one hand silencing the coil of chain at his hip. The few volunteers you pass on the way simply roll their eyes and give your group a wide berth.

Finally, after a few ‘close calls’ as Rat puts it, the three of you slip unnoticed into the hangar. Your footsteps echo through the large chamber as you follow the two junkers past the Orca and a collection of vans and smaller vehicles in varying states of repair.

“So is there any particular reason we’re ‘sneaking’ around?” You raise an eyebrow at a very obvious security camera as it follows your movement through this part of the hangar. Roadhog shrugs in front of you and Rat flips the bird at the camera without even turning.

“Not s’posed to be goin’ off-base without the ape’s say-so. Used’ta be easy, before all these do-gooders showed up. Now word travels quick-like. Nosey shits.” The three of you round a rather sizeable stack of crates and Junkrat stiffens before raising his voice: “And speakin’ of! Oi! Rack off!”

In front of you, perched atop an oddly-shaped lump of tarp, sits a monkey. An honest-to-goodness fuzzy goddamn monkey. The creature looks up in alarm from where it sits picking at the tarp before rushing off as Junkrat waves his arms and hollers.

Once the monkey has gone, he breathes a sigh of relief as Roadhog takes the duffle bag from him. “Fuckin’ ape-”

“Monkey.” Roadie corrects. Junkrat huffs and busies himself with gingerly lifting the corner of the tarp and poking around underneath.

“Got no tail. S’a fuckin’ ape.”

You laugh and lean against one of the crates, watching curiously as Roadhog pulls a massive t-shirt from the bag and pulls it on over the simple, unarmored harness he wears to secure his chain and hook. “Still a monkey,” he grunts as he struggles momentarily to fit his mask through the neck of the shirt.

“Well that _monkey_ looked about 2 kilos off from triggerin’ me security.”

Hog groans and pulls a ratty leather vest completely covered in buttons and pins from the bag, pulling it on as well. “You didn’t. Not here.” His mask turns towards you and for a brief moment you’re almost certain he’s shooting you a ‘see what I put up with’ look behind that mask. You can only return a confused shrug.

“I got bored! You tellin’ me ya _didn’t_ marry me for me unhealthy lov’a PE-4?” He emerges from under the tarp with a small box and a tangle of wires, mock hurt on his face. “I’m hurt, Hogsworth. I want a divorce.”

“Only shit gettin’ hitched are your teeth to the concrete. Stop trapping my bike.”

“Oooh! I can get new golds done!”

Roadie takes a threatening step forward and Junkrat nearly drops the box he’s carrying in a scramble to back away.

“C’mon Hog. Don’t get yer tits in a tangle. It was just some chem, nothin’ that’d damage the bike.” When Roadhog doesn’t back down, Rat nervously looks over to you and clears his throat. “Look mate. Just a joke, right? Bit excited and me mouth won’t stop movin’. Sheila, little help?”

Any hope on his face is extinguished when you just smile wryly and cross your arms with a declaration of: “Sorry, I’m not allowed to exert myself.” He groans and resorts to pouting as Roadhog’s hands engulf his shoulders and effortlessly lift him, placing him down again out of his way. You chuckle to yourself as Hog busies himself with the tarp and Junkrat shoots you a betrayed frown.

Your laughter is cut short as the cover is finally pulled away, revealing Roadhog’s pride and joy. He peers back at you over your shoulder to gauge your reaction as he folds the tarp.

It reminds you of the old, stretched-out chopper motorcycles from the 70’s. It’s a massive collection of chrome and black leather, with a (quite frankly tacky) yellow paintjob. Spikes and knicknacks have been welded to it in the oddest of places, and everything is polished to a mirror-like shine.

The bike itself is not an issue: It’s the mass of steel and death attached to it that worries you.

Holy shit, you are not getting in this thing.

The sidecar, if you can even call it that, appears to be held on to the frame with a combination of equal parts duct tape and hope, with a few pieces of metal in between. While the chopper is obviously meticulously cared for, the sidecar is meticulously… not. Covered in hasty patch jobs and splotches of paint, the car more resembles a nightmarish carnival ride than a mode of transportation. A toothy stylized grin adorns its front, a clear indication of its origins and caretaker.

“Ain’t she a beaut?” Junkrat cackles as he hops into the sidecar, moving instantly to dig around at his feet. Your lips pull into a tight line as you try to hold in your terror. “Plenty’a room for more, just gimmie a tick.” Shell casings, chip bags, and all manner of trash begin flying over the side accompanied by the occasional unintelligible murmur.

“Bring the bag,” Roadhog grunts as he walks around the bike itself, pausing occasionally to examine a part or wipe off a smudge. You grab the duffel and peer over the edge of the yellow deathtrap to where Junkrat is hunching over, cautiously brushing a coarse dark powder back into a small plastic zipper bag. He notices you, grins nervously, and hurriedly scoops the remainder of the substance into the baggie before sitting up and stuffing it under the seat.

“All clean!” He exclaims, voice cracking slightly as he takes the duffle bag from you. He tosses it at his feet and lounges back, hands folded behind his neck. “Of course, yer gonna have’ta take me lap.” Another arrangement could be made, you’re sure; There is plenty of room if he were to scootch over.

The cheshire grin spreading across his face would be creepy in this context if you weren’t so used to seeing him do it. Like he’s waiting to reveal a punchline. Which, admittedly, he likely is.

Go ahead, a little voice says. Call his bluff.

You grip the edge of the sidecar and plant one foot firmly on the wheel. His grin drops a fraction and he makes a confused noise as you lift yourself up and over the lip, aiming carefully to avoid the mass of metal that juts out from the knee of his prosthetic. He emits a startled squawk as you land on his lap and shift to sit more comfortably. You cross your arms and lean against the side, watching contentedly as his face shifts from shock to shameless joy.

“Oi Hoggie!” He shouts as Hog swings himself onto the chopper. The entire rig jostles and groans slightly under the sudden weight. “She’s heavier than she looks, eh?” His shrill titter is short-lived as Hog reaches over and smacks him lightly on the back of the head. Junkrat grunts but continues to grin at him.

“Idiot.” Hog reaches below him and fiddles with something on the bike for a moment. “She ain’t that heavy. Carried her.” He shakes his head as he slips the key into the ignition in a smooth and familiar motion before shifting his weight and bringing his foot down hard on something you can’t see. With a deafening roar the bike comes to life, spitting an angry-smelling exhaust that threatens to fill the small nook.

Before you can voice your concern you’re moving, the bike weaving around the crates and down the center of the hangar before slipping out the open doors on the far end. You lean back into Junkrat as the bike jostles with every bump in the poorly maintained courtyard. The surrounding area glistens with moisture despite the overcast day. You didn’t even know it had rained.

Past the security wall the industrial setting is quickly replaced with one hell of a view. You lean over for a better look, lush green scenery sloping down and giving you a clear view of the city far below. You can catch peeks on the way down of the narrow roads snaking around the rock.

“Should I have a helmet on or something?” You shout over the engine as the bike turns sharply, sending you reeling to the side as Junkrat’s flesh arm darts around your middle to hold you in place. “Holy fuck!” One hand clasps onto the side of the car while the other locks around Rat’s wrist.

“A helmet? No need f’that!” Junkrat cackles as the bike weaves again, prompting you to tighten your grip. “Roadie’s t’best damn getaway driver I’ve ever had! Oi mate,” he raises his voice, addressing the driver beside you through the wind. “I think she’s insultin’ ya drivin’!”

“I am no- **OOOOOOT?!** ” You shriek as the chopper picks up speed with a roar, taking the next curve with such violence that the sidecar’s wheel lifts off the crumbling pavement. Your shrill scream is accompanied by howling laughter behind you as Junkrat braces his legs against the walls of the sidecar. You look ahead and thank your lucky stars that the road remains straight in front of you.

The wind howls louder in your ears than the bike’s engine as you rip down the trail. You’re not sure if you’re seeing things, but beside you you’re pretty sure you can see Hog’s shoulders shaking with laughter. These sons of bitches know _exactly_ what they’re doing. Another bump in the road sets you scrambling to hold on tighter as the bike lurches.

“Jamison _motherfucking_ Fawkes you had better not let go!” You screech as the bike hits another bump and throws you against Rat’s arm with force. This time you can hear the low timbre of Hog’s wheezing laughter beside you.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.” The seriousness of the tone behind you startles you, twisting where you sit to look to see Rat frowning straight ahead and squinting against the wind. You’re about to comment when the once blissfully straight road betrays you, the force of the bike’s next turn sending you reeling and grasping once again for any handhold in sight despite the arm locked around your waist.

Not once does Junkrat speak for the rest of the short trip down the rock. Even Hog looks over in concern as the bike slows to a more manageable (and legal) speed when you turn onto a proper populated street. To your surprise, very few people seem to take notice of the bike as you roll into town.

“Hey,” you nudge Junkrat as you roll past a cluster of apartment buildings. You can see glimpses of tall boat masts between them. “You okay?” He jumps and turns to look at you with wide eyes before scanning the surroundings frantically. After a few seconds recognition sets in and he calms down.

“Shit, just thinkin’.” He pulls the arm from around you and shudders. The bike rolls to a stop in front of an unassuming storefront with tiny windows and Junkrat reaches down and grabs the bag at your feet. “Musta’ spaced out. Shift.” It takes you a moment to realize he’s asking you to move and you shift your weight off his leg. He hops out of the sidecar and checks the street before ducking into the shop without another word.

You climb out yourself with little difficulty as Roadhog gives the bike a once-over. “What’s eating him,” you mumble as you dust the dirt and grime from your jeans. He seemed fine earlier. Did you muck up by using his real name? Is this another of those ‘not common knowledge’ moments? He didn’t look too upset, just distracted.

“A coincidence.” You look up to see Hog just staring at you. “He’ll get over it.”

You want to ask, but something tells you now is not the time or place. Instead you give your clothes one final pat and stride to join him at the door, pushing it open to the soft jingle of bells.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“Jamison _motherfucking_ Fawkes you had better not let go!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t _dream_ of it!” He shouts down in annoyance. He’s just happy he’d reflexively caught himself with his good arm; the mechanical one would have given out under his weight at this point.

He can feel the blood pooling in his palm where the hunk of rusted rebar has dug into the flesh too far, but he only grips tighter to fight the building slick. No matter how tough he is, and how fun it looks, a fall from nine floors up is going to hurt if not kill him. He knows that.

Below him, he catches a glimpse of porcelain white and electric blue flitting between the aged chunks of fallen concrete and twisted metal.

“Really,” he hears her call from somewhere closer. Her voice echoes through the skeletal remains of the city block, punctuated by the sound of distant gunfire. “What the fuck were you thinking, jumping onto that thing? Hog’s going mental, he’s going to kill you himself when he catches up.”

“Got the fucker good, though!” He only laughs as he tries once again to get a better grip on the dangling rebar. “You comin’ up? Should see th’bits scattered about. It went up real good! It was beautiful!” He curses under his breath as his grip slips just enough to slice his hand deeper.

“Oh I see it alright. A bit of it here, a bit of it there…” He can see her now, poking her head out a door a few floors down. She disappears again briefly before reappearing at a run, springing off the remains of the wall and up to the floor below his.

“I’ve got an idea. _Hang_ tight.” She disappears back into the structure and he rolls his eyes.

“You’re fuckin’ hilarious, sheila.”

“Keep up the shitty comebacks. I’ve been recording since three blocks down.” She’s somewhere on the next floor up, he thinks. He can hear the grinding groan of metal being stressed. “ _Aussie Rodent Attempts Flight in Russia_ , should make debriefing entertaining at least.”

“Tick tock!” He spits as she pokes her helmet over the edge above him. The evening light is dim and he can just barely make out her shit-eating grin through the shadowed glass. “I’ve gotta piss somethin’ awful,” he grumbles and her smile only grows.

“Charming,” she laughs as she suddenly swings forward over the edge, torso and arms dangling just in reach. The concrete crumbles somewhat under her weight, showering him in pebbles and debris. She reaches down and takes his metal hand in hers, the segments of her suit clicking softly as they lock in place to reinforce her strength. The other hand snakes around his flesh wrist, allowing him to ease his grip on the rebar.

“Come on then,” she chuckles as he pulls himself up using her as a ladder. “You can take a leak once you’re up. I’ve got you-”

“Stop that,” Hog grunts.

He jumps, startled, at the massive hand suddenly on his shoulder. The half-demolished buildings and the mouldy air melt away to the sight of a kitschy bathroom and the smell of sweets.

Rat looks up and grins at his bodyguard. “Was just-”

“Thinkin’.” Roadie interrupts. Junkrat’s smile falls. “I know. Stop it.” The behemoth squeezes his way out the small door and Rat can hear you greet him from deeper inside the tiny cafe.

He turns the faucet on and scoops a palmful of water into his mouth, swishing and spitting to clear the metallic aftertaste of bile from his tongue.

“Fuckin’ bullshit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love and hugs! Have a good evenin’! Sorry for delaying tea!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dammit Honeybucky, [you've done it again.](http://faranaelit.tumblr.com/post/159398533316/watch-your-step-part-18)
> 
> Anyway! We’ve had a rough time lately. Sit back, relax, and enjoy some sort-of-fluffy nonsense.

You’re pretty sure it’s illegal for any one room to contain this many garish floral prints and miscellaneous monkey-themed knick knacks. The walls of the café are barely visible beneath the mismatched portraits and landscapes and shelves of figurines. Each table has its own tacky covering, and none of the light fixtures match either.

You gape at the decor, amazed that something so kitsch can come together so well. It looks more like someone’s crazy grandmother’s house than a business, but oddly enough it works. The place is positively buzzing with young folk scattered among the tables enjoying plates piled high with desserts and sandwiches, each nursing a fancy coffee or bubble tea.

The grandmother comparison proves itself highly accurate as an ancient-looking woman, barely taller than your chest, approaches you and Roadhog at the door. Her silver hair is pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, and her dress and apron look like they’ve been made from 1970’s curtains. It’s very apparent where the café gets its style from.

To your surprise she reaches out and gently pats Hog’s gut in a familiar gesture. You glance at the big guy nervously, expecting him to bristle or retaliate, but he simply nods at the tiny lady.

“Ah good,” she smiles warmly up at him. “Mister Harris is just in the washroom, dear. Your usual table?” Roadhog grunts an affirmative and his massive hand envelops your shoulder.

“Be right back,” he says quietly. The lady seems to notice you for the first time and her eyes widen behind her thick glasses. “Follow Jasmine. She’s good.” He turns towards a side door without another word as the woman, Jasmine you assume, grips your hands in a firm shake. Her smile is wide and warm, if missing several teeth.

“Oh, those boys finally brought me someone new!” She exclaims once Hog is out of sight. “I’ll get you set right up, this way.” You follow her deeper into the tiny establishment, pausing momentarily to marvel at the massive glass display of cakes and the wall of flavored syrups behind the counter. Junkrat hadn’t been exaggerating when he described the place, it seems.

“You can tour the sweets once the boys are settled in,” she assures you as she hurries you towards the very back of the shop. There, past a tacky stained-glass partition, sits a sizeable private table surrounded by padded benches instead of chairs. Jasmine pulls a small folded menu from her apron and places it on the table as you take a seat.

“Nobody will bother you back here, dear.” She peers around the partition at the main café before shuffling over to a curtain hanging against the wall. “Anything goes odd, the back exit is just through here. Just so you’re aware.” She winks then, stopping beside you and lowering her voice considerably.

“Are you stationed up on the rock as well?”

You squint at her cautiously and she simply chuckles in response.

“Those two think they’re sneaky, but I’ll have you know the current boss up on the rock is rather fond of my peanut butter mousse.” She winks and nods at the far wall that had been previously blocked from view by the partition. Where the outer room had been covered in tacky decorations, the wall in here is almost completely dedicated to what looks like old Overwatch memorabilia. Signed photographs of various men and women in uniform, all of which appear to have been taken in this very room, dot the wall in between the posters and novelty plates. Winston himself is featured in one or two.

You look back to her and nod, having some understanding of the gorilla’s peanut butter addiction. “A year those boys have been using my back room, and still they insist on their secrecy. They may not be old blood, but I know agents when I see them. Your lot kind of stick out here in Gib.”

She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.

“That said, if ‘Roper Harris’ and ‘Nikau Taylor’-” You can’t help but giggle as this tiny old woman makes air quotes with her fingers around the names, “-want to pretend I’m an ignorant old woman who am I to stop them? They’re good boys, no matter how big that bounty on their heads is.”

“You know about-”

“I have three rules and one warning,” she interrupts. The warm smile never leaves her face, yet you can’t help but feel intimidated by this miniscule matriarch. “Firstly, the warning: They’re a bit rough around the edges, but those boys are regulars of mine. If I catch wind you’ve done them wrong you’ll not find the laxatives in your cake until it’s too late. And you won’t be welcome here again afterwards.” You nod furiously and she raises three fingers, tapping them each as she lists off her rules.

“You pay your bill in full before you leave. You don’t break my things. You don’t do anything shady in my back room. Follow those and we’ll get along fine, are we clear?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Ah, there he is,” she smiles towards the front of the café and you lean over to peek around the partition. Hog is shuffling through the shop, trying his damndest not to jostle any of the tightly-packed tables.

“Hey!” You wave over at him. He nods and hurries along, Junkrat slipping out of the washroom behind him a few moments later. The hostess waits patiently for the two to reach the back room before continuing.

“Actually,” Jasmine adds, lifting a fourth finger to join the others as Roadhog carefully lowers himself down onto the bench opposite yours. Rat playfully flicks her bun on the way past and drops onto the seat next to Hog’s. “Mister Taylor, I’m adding a fourth item to my rules.”

“Really,” Hog huffs, obviously amused. Rat drops the duffle bag behind him and shoots her a puzzled look. He’s still being oddly quiet, you think.

“Rule four: If you bring anyone new into my place, you have to pick something out of the cabinet you think she might like. It’s on the house if you pick correctly.” Junkrat cackles and reaches across the table to nudge your shoulder. “But,” she amends with a sly smile, “you must guess! No conspiring against me, now!”

“Lime cake-” Junkrat begins to shout just as Roadie reaches over and engulfs his face with a palm.

“She’s not allowed to look?” He asks, and your hostess shakes her head. His mask studies you for a long moment as Rat sits there pulling at the hand over his face. “Try the maple ginger. Shortcake for me. You already know what _he_ wants.” He withdraws his palm and Junkrat leans over the table towards the old woman with the largest grin you’ve seen on him all day.

“Fuckin’ lime cake! And a tea, melon this time!” He taps his metal fingers loudly on the tabletop in a nonsensical rhythm. “And one for the sheila, too.” Jasmine raises an eyebrow at him and he flops back onto his seat. “Please,” he adds with startling politeness. She nods and turns her attention back to Roadhog.

“And the usual for you, dear?”

“Please.”

“So three sky-highs; maple ginger, mojito, strawberry. Two milk tea half-sweet, and a chai latte.” Hog nods along as she lists off the order. “That everything for now?”

“Only one of those teas half sweet,” you add. “Please and thank you.”

She claps her hands and marches off towards the front of the café with your order.

“So,” you prop your elbows on the table and smile at the two junkers across from you. Between Rat’s near-shredded tank top and Hog’s vest, they look tremendously out of place in the floral kitsch of the café. “She’s nice.”

“Yeah, Jas’ is a decent ol’ bat.” Junkrat grins over at you, all traces of his previous distracted state gone. “She’s mad as a cut snake half the time, though.”

“Oh, I can believe it,” you groan.

“She get to you too?” Hog asks innocently enough, leaning into the table and ignoring Junkrat’s confused chattering beside him. “Laxatives?”

You can’t help but burst into giggles as it dawns on you that the tiny woman’s casual threats must be the norm in this place. You nod and Hog wheezes a laugh along with you.

“Lacks a what?” Rat pauses where he’s fiddling with the tablecloth and looks between the two of you in confusion. His confusion slips to annoyance as he realizes he’s not in on whatever joke the two of you are sharing. “Oh fuck off, the two of ya.”

“Does she threaten everyone who comes in here?” Your mood has lifted considerably, getting to actually hear Roadie’s laugh. It’s deep and interrupted by wheezing, but still mirthful and genuine.

“Who’s threatenin’ who?” Rat’s interest has been piqued, but you just grin at him and turn your attention back to Roadie as he grunts and tugs at the straps of his mask.

“Mostly.” He shrugs and reaches over, pulling the tablecloth out from Rat’s grasp. “I like Jasmine.”

“You must,” you can’t help but smirk up at the big guy. “This is the most relaxed I think I’ve seen you.” He stills for a moment, almost thoughtfully, before going back to fiddling with his mask. Beside him, Rat is leaning back as far as he can on the bench in a bored balancing act.

“Don’t let ‘im fool ya, he’s just happy the-”

“Stop talking,” Hog spits as he mock-backhands him. Despite only being light contact it’s enough to throw Rat off balance and backwards towards the floor in a flurry of scrambling limbs and curses. You’re half-caught between concern and amusement as he thumps down hard with a grunt. Before you can ask if he’s alright, a sizeable tray piled high with color is set down in front of you by an awkward-looking teenage boy.

“Here you go,” he mumbles as he sets an absolutely massive slice of cake and a tall glass of tea in front of you. He flinches as Roadhog takes the strawberry shortcake and some white and green cake monstrosity from his tray.

“G-grandmum says she’s, uhm…” The boy looks to you as if pleading for help before turning to meekly address Roadie. “Grandmum says she’s adding two biscotti to your bill. With the chai. S-sorry.” He practically throws the remaining drinks off the tray and leaves as quickly as he’d come, emitting a barely-audible whine.

“The fuck was that about?” You peek around the partition after the server but only manage to catch the tail-end of an apron as he disappears into the back. As you turn back to the table, you see Roadhog pull two oblong cookies from under his vest.

So despite all Rat’s talk of the two being ‘legit’ on the rock, old habits die hard it seems. You’re not sure when or where Hog slipped the biscotti but he seems completely unapologetic at being caught. He dunks one of the biscuits into his drink and holds it there, shrugging slightly as he levels the gaze of his mask on you. Even without seeing his face you can guess that he’s silently daring you to say something about the theft.

“So,” you mutter, trying to change the subject as Junkrat pulls himself back up onto his bench. “It’s obvious what Hog’s got but what the hell is that?” You gesture from Roadhog’s plate of delicate white cake and strawberries to Junkrat’s; what seems to be an unholy mass of cake layered between green and white pastes.

Rat grins and grabs his fork, prodding at and dissecting the dessert’s layers in sequence as he speaks:

“This part here’s normal cake, see? But she soaks it in somethin’ with kick. This fluffy bit is limey, and this other one tastes like mints.” He swipes the fork through the whole thing, taking a massive portion onto the utensil that looks like it may not even fit in his mouth. “There’s chokkie too, but it’s the white shit so it don’t count.” He shoves the massive bite of cake into his maw with some effort and melts into a happy puddle there on the table, grinning from ear to ear as he chews.

“If efaidin,” he attempts to speak through the cake. “Fuddin worb, buddid duf.” You can’t understand a word and choose instead to focus on Hog as he lifts his mask up just far enough to slip the entire biscotti whole into his mouth, lowering the leather back into place as he chews. Well, that sure does look inconvenient. You had thought he would just leave the mask half-off or something while he ate.

“What ‘bout yours?” A messy fork reaches across the table towards your plate and you react quickly, pulling the cake to your other side protectively. Junkrat frowns and detours to stab a berry from Hog’s plate instead. His victim simply sighs and lifts his mask enough to devour the second biscotti.

You take up your own fork, slicing off a thin slice of the rich, honey-colored cake in front of you. The taste is not what you were expecting from such a rich-sounding name. It’s almost like eating a very soft gingerbread, with hints of maple in the icing. Mellow and spicy, but still sweet. You close your eyes to focus on the flavors and chew slowly, savoring that first bite.

“I was going to ask if you liked the cake, but from that look maybe we should give you some privacy. Just don’t make a mess of my bench, dear.”

You startle and look over to see Jasmine beaming knowingly up at you with her eyes narrowed. Hog bangs a fist on the table and turns away, snorting as his shoulders shake with restrained laughter. Rat is less subtle, cackling loudly as you look down in horror at the tiny woman beside you.

You’re about 90% sure that was a masturbation joke from a woman that is old enough to be your great-grandmother.

“That good, hmm?”

You nod quickly and swallow the bite of cake. Yup. Definitely a sex joke.

“Well my dear, the first is on the house, as promised.”

“Th-Thank you.” You trip over the words, fighting laughter yourself as the initial embarrassment fades. The old woman leaves without another word, allowing you and the junkers to finish your cake in (relative) peace. The tea is as good as Rat had promised as well, cool and sweet and indeed leagues better than his homemade attempt.

He pouts for a good five minutes when you say as much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the main café, the other patrons quickly grow used to the contagious laughter pouring from the back room. If anything, the general mood in the place lightens because of it. The owner peers in from the kitchen, taking in the happy atmosphere as she puts the finishing touches on a to-go bag. 
> 
> “You’re quite convincing, dear.” She mutters sweetly into the phone cradled between her ear and shoulder. “But we both know you’ll find nothing of the sort on me.” She pauses a moment, listening carefully to the caller before barking a short laugh and ending the call.
> 
> “Honestly.” She clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes at the old handset. “Thirty years I’ve been serving those agents. As if I’m going to cave in to some childish demands _now._ ”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back, baby! Thanks to everyone once again for their well-wishes while I was recovering. I really did need to take some time to focus on getting better, and it helped so much. 
> 
> So uh. Honeybucky. Buddy. Pal. [I think I need an intervention.](http://faranaelit.tumblr.com/post/160033659941/watch-your-step-part-19)

“I need a shower,” you groan as the bike rolls through the gates surrounding the watchpoint. “As fun as this was, I smell like burnt rubber drenched in buttercream icing now.” Beneath you, Rat gasps in mock offense. You pinch the greasy lining of the sidecar’s seat, raising a judging eyebrow as your fingers come away with a new coating of grime. He just grins and shrugs innocently.

The ride back up the rock has been thankfully less exciting than the trip down had been. That didn’t stop Rat from locking his flesh arm around your waist to hold you secure at the first opportunity, but you welcomed the gesture. You have a sneaking suspicion Hog’s more cautious driving on the return trip has something to do with the sizeable takeaway package from Jasmine’s place cradled in your lap.

As the bike slowly rolls through the courtyard, you catch the briefest glimpse of something moving swiftly past the hangar doors. You twist to look around as you pass through them, but nothing seems amiss. That’s odd, you think to yourself as you continue to scan the deserted surroundings. Whatever it was is gone now.

“What’s goin’?”

“Oh,” you look behind you to Rat and shrug as Hog pulls the bike into its place behind the wall of crates and kills the engine. The sudden silence catches you off-guard as usual, and you need to remind yourself to lower your voice appropriately. “Just thought I saw someone, is all.”

“Eh, ‘prolly Genji.” Rat mumbles, his grip on your waist tightening ever-so-slightly before he releases you. You climb out of the sidecar and peek around the crates as he scrambles to toss the earlier-discarded trash back into the vehicle. “Keeps him in practice, he says. Well I say he’s just a sneaky shit what hides around collectin’ gossip!” He raises his volume as he speaks, projecting the accusation through the echoing garage.

“You get used to it,” Hog grumbles as he flings the tarp back over the bike, catching Rat underneath it as well. The smaller junker curses and flails wildly on his way out, much to Hog’s amusement, but you find yourself distracted. Out of everyone stationed at the base who had come to visit you in Angela’s clinic during your recovery, Genji had been noticeably absent. In fact, you’d yet to meet the cyborg at all and even Zenyatta had found that odd.

“Welp,” you say, raising your own voice to the point it can be heard throughout the hangar. “If it _is_ Genji and he prefers stalking around doing nothing instead of introducing himself to someone who thinks cyborg ninjas are _pretty fucking cool,_ that’s his business.” You can’t help but smirk as you hear a sudden clatter followed by shuffling in the distance.

Bingo.

You turn back to the junkers and can’t help but laugh as Rat extracts himself from the tarp in a flurry of arms and swears, chucking the duffle bag at Roadie who catches it effortlessly. Junkrat ignores the larger man’s disapproving growl and instead limps over to you, making grabby hands for the package of sweets in your arms. You hand it over and smile warmly.

“Thanks for the rescue, by the way. I don’t think Angie will ever run out of tests to run, and I was starting to feel more than a bit cooped up.” Junkrat nods and looks over his shoulder towards Roadie. “Not bad for a not-date, either. You did good. Both of you. Thanks.”

Junkrat stiffens at the praise, and you almost think you’ve said too much until you catch the over-the-moon grin he’s got plastered on his face. He looks so proud of himself, you could almost kiss him again. Almost.

Which reminds you:

“By the way, Hog?” You skirt past a still-beaming Junkrat to where his partner in crime stands going through the contents of the bag. He barely acknowledges you as you spend a second to work out your plan of attack, pulling yourself up to sit on the crate he has the bag sitting on. It doesn’t give you much extra height, but it’s enough.

“Hey, lean over,” you say after a moment. Hog tilts his head somewhat but continues ruffling through the duffle.

“What.” It sounds more like a statement than a question through the distortion of the mask. You twist your finger in a come-hither motion and he finally looks up from the bag.

“Come on, you wouldn’t get in the way of a gal paying back a debt, would you?” He hums in confusion, but leans down towards you anyway. You reach over and innocently kiss the side of his mask, and he bristles in response. A few feet away Junkrat bends over double laughing his ass off.

“What the fuck,” Roadhog begins, but you’re already sliding off the crate and practically skipping your way past Junkrat as he slips to his knees clutching his sides. You give him a small wave as you pass by, but you’re pretty sure he doesn’t notice over his enthusiastic giggling.

“Sorry Hog, but I owed you one!” You sing-song over Rat’s laughter, pausing before you turn past the wall of crates. The large man seems torn between whether he wants to throw the duffle bag at Rat or not. “I’ll see you guys later, okay? Thanks again!” You shrug apologetically before giving them one last wave and turning the corner. That shower isn't going to take itself, after all.

You can hear Junkrat wheezing in between laughs behind you as he tries to catch his breath, insisting that he’d warned Hog about ‘the debt’ a few days prior. You grin smugly to yourself as you walk through the hangar towards the elevator that leads deeper into the base. That was more amusing than you’ll ever admit to Roadhog.

You don’t suppose it’s often the big guy is caught off-guard.

Maybe it’s the sugar from the café, or maybe it’s just the time spent with the two junkers, but you feel energized as you make your way through the base. You chirp pleasant greetings to every pair of volunteers you pass, recognizing most from either the dining hall on your first day back or as visitors while you were confined to medical. Many of them smile and wave, or ask how you’re feeling.

It’s surreal that these people have barely known you a week yet seem so familiar with you, and you can’t even remember their names. Perhaps it’s just how people are nowadays, or the way Overwatch has brung them together with a common purpose. They really do seem to treat each other as family. You suppose that includes you for the time being.

Your thoughts wander just as you do, winding through the halls toward where you hope the live-in quarters are located. You have no idea how large the watchpoint is or how deep it winds into the rock but you’re sure you haven’t even seen half of the facilities. Remembering specific routes through the base is one thing, but coming at it from an unfamiliar angle can be daunting. Just as you resign yourself to asking Athena for directions, you finally catch sight of a familiar corridor.

Somehow you’ve found yourself in medical. How the hell did you veer this far? At least from here it’s an easy path to your room, and from there you know the way to the showers. It may be a bit roundabout, but it’s better than being lost.

As you pass by the clinic doors you can’t help but pause. Angela had seemed frustrated when the boys spirited you away earlier. She would probably appreciate it if you popped in to let her know you hadn’t gotten yourself into trouble while you were in town.

Just as you are about to place your hand on the access, the doors slide open and the good doctor herself steps out with a backpack slung over one shoulder. She almost walks right past you, though if she’s lost in thought or simply exhausted you can’t tell.

“Angela?”

She looks up with tired eyes, taking a moment to register just who is standing in front of her.

“Oh!” She looks around briefly as if expecting more company. She shifts the bag onto her other arm, rubbing at her face with a palm. “I had not expected to see you so soon. Enjoying your freedom?” She sounds as tired as she looks. You nod and smile, and she seems relieved.

“We went into town for tea and cake. I guess that was breaking a few rules, but they didn’t get into any trouble while we were out if that helps.”

Angela shakes her head slowly, but the smile doesn’t leave her lips. “Those two know better. Ah, well. And your shoulder?”

You stop and think, pulling the joint this way and that. The dull aching pain is still there, but you’ve been so distracted today that you haven’t given it much thought. “Still fine,” you confirm. “Doesn’t hurt any more than it did this morning. I’ve barely noticed it actually.”

“Excellent. You must remember to continue your exercises even if the pain lessens, understood?”

“I’ll take care of myself if you promise to do the same,” you suggest. She looks up in confusion. “You look exhausted Ange,” you clarify. “You should go grab something to eat and take a nap.” The doctor presses her lips into a thin, annoyed line as she crosses her arms. You cross your own and raise an eyebrow in return.

She is the first to break the standoff, sighing and dropping her arms to her side, obviously too exhausted to stay irritated for long.

You almost feel guilty. You’re aware of the reason for her exhaustion; She’s been running tests on your blood and tissue samples nonstop trying to find the cause of your reaction to her biotic technology. She may put on airs, but you’ve caught her off-guard. She’s obviously far more tired than she has let on these past few days.

“I am not usually the one being scolded. But yes, of course you are correct. I suppose I have been somewhat hypocritical...”

You pat her arm encouragingly. “Get some sleep, Angela. I’ll stop by with coffee tomorrow when I check in, sound good?” The doctor’s eyes widen hopefully at the mere mention of caffeine. Yep, she’s tired alright. “I’ll see you then?”

Her exhausted smile is all the confirmation you need. You say your goodbyes and part ways, her shambling zombie-like back the way you’d come as you head for your quarters.

This detour is for the best, it turns out. Having to pass by your room means you can pick up a set of clothes that don’t smell like gasoline and cake. You try to ignore the clothing scattered about the drawers as you pick out fresh ones. Thankfully the garments aren’t smeared with soot, which means it was likely Roadhog who had acquired the change of clothes for you earlier.

You’re not sure why, but the idea of Junkrat going through your underwear drawer is absolutely _mortifying._ Hog too of course, but to a far lesser extent.

It’s odd, you think as you hold up a hilariously frilly set of undergarments. The thought of anyone going through your things is embarrassing, even though you’ve never in memory worn any of it. The clothes from Hana were one thing; Those were borrowed anyway. But the outfits you’d unpacked from old-you’s belongings...

You run your thumb over a frayed seam on the underwear while you sit lost in thought at the small desk. Obviously the clothes were well-worn, implying they saw frequent use. They are yours, after all. But they don’t feel like yours. But they _must_ be yours. But-

“Ah fuck it, this is depressing.”

You toss the underwear into the small pile of clothes you’ve collected and bundle them together, flicking the lights off and trekking down to the showers. The more you focus on what you can’t remember, the more out-of-place you feel. How long can you stay here being useless to Overwatch? They’ve tried to jog your memory, sure. But until that happens, if that happens at all, you’re just a drain on resources.

So the way you see it, you have two real options:

You can keep going as you are now. You can continue to wander around the base mostly clueless, making friends and trying to fit in. Best case scenario, your memories come back and you get put back into the field. Worst case, enough time passes that they decide you’re a civilian proper and you have to leave.

Or, you can press your nose to the grindstone and _make_ yourself into an agent the hard way. You’ve already determined that your endurance is more than decent, if the incidents with the weird dance game or Soldier’s training fuckery are any indication. You can put that suit on and work your ass off to be an asset to the team. Best case scenario, you earn your keep. Your chances of sticking around seem higher with this choice, but at what cost?

You pause as you reach the showers, staring at the hand-drawn poster beside the doorway. The childish caricatures are colorful and you can’t help but smile, wondering who it could have been that drew them. Now that you’re seeing it properly in the light, one of the small figures kind of looks like you. You can point out Lúcio easy, one has Lena’s crazy perma-bedhead, one even has a white arm that looks suspiciously like Symmetra. There’s even a little Genji in a shower cap.

You’re envious of this past-you doodled on the poster. The girl who got to share so many experiences with the team. She must have been something special, and it will be a hard act to follow.

There’s a third option, you realize suddenly. Your grip on the bundle of clothes in your arms tightens and your chest swells with something resembling hope.

You _can_ do both. If there’s a balance between making a new home for yourself proper and working your ass off, you can find it. You did it once before, even if you can’t remember it. You can do it again.

Maybe that’s the way to go about it: View your past self as a goal to be reached rather than something lost that needs to be found.

“Excuse me, please.”

You step away from the doorway quickly and a rather large volunteer with damp hair slips past you, a colorful tote in her arms. Your senses snap back to the present and the sounds drifting from the shower room finally register. Before, you’d been here in the middle of the night. But now, in the late afternoon, it sounds like the facility is fairly popular.

Your suspicion is confirmed when you enter the humid room. Several stalls are obviously in use, voices carrying through the room as their occupants chat amongst each other. Bags and totes litter the benches and baskets, their owners either bathing or loitering at the counters in varying levels of undress and towels.

You also note that this is apparently a unisex shower, not that anyone seems to care.

“Miss Snare?” “Miss Snare!”

Your attention is called to the far end of the room as the two mechanic brothers from this morning call to you in unison, each with a toothbrush hanging from their mouth. A few others in the room, none of which you recognize, turn and give nods in greeting.

“Hey,” you answer with familiarity. You set your bundle of clothes down in front of a vacant stall and head their way to grab a towel and washcloth from one of the large, fluffy stacks. “Is it always this busy in here this time of day?”

“Yes,” one of them shrugs as he tosses his toiletries into a shared bag between them. “Many of us prefer to bathe earlier in the evening. It is too crowded after dinner.” The smaller of the two nudges his brother out of the way and tosses his own toothbrush and paste into the bag. “Doctor Ziegler has allowed you to leave her care? You are well?”

“Mhm!” You nod happily and the two exchange a grin. “I’ll come and pay you a visit soon, I think. I haven’t been to the workshop at all yet. But before I do anything,” you hold the towel up and point to the stall you’ve claimed. “I really need to wash up.”

The brothers excuse themselves and leave you to your shower preparations. Remembering the last time you showered here, you bring your clothes into the stall with you and set everything on a high shelf inside. So long as you are careful not to splash the water everywhere, they should stay dry.

You pull the omnic-eye keychain from your pocket and squeeze the cool cylinder in your palm, running your thumb over the rough texture of the paint before placing it safely with the clean clothes and stripping down.

The shower isn’t quite as luxurious as that first night back, but it’s still relaxing to scrub the grime away. You debate with yourself on if you should ask about getting a razor, but it’s not exactly high on your list of priorities. At least Angela had been kind enough to trim your hair while you were in her care as a year of untended growth had resulted in one hell of an uneven mess.

The chatter in the showers trickles to nothing as the volunteers finish up and filter out for dinner. After what feels like only a few minutes you are in near silence, only the falling water and your thoughts to keep you company. You sigh and rinse out the last of the conditioner, tapping at the controls to end the stream.

“I’ll start tomorrow,” you mumble to yourself as you pat dry and get dressed in the stall, formulating a plan in your head. You’ll start with a check-in with Angela, hit up the workshop as you’d promised, and then explore what sorts of training facilities are available in and around the watchpoint. If all goes well, you can give that suit another try by the end of the day.

You gently touch your fingers to the nape of your neck as you pull a tank top on, remembering the burns left there the last time you tried on the sleek armor. They had healed along with everything else when Hog gassed you, of course, but you aren’t looking forward to acquiring them all over again. You’ll have to ask Angela for more of that medicated cream when you visit in the morning.  

For now though, you just need to worry about fighting your way through the mess hall. It will be nice setting your own portions instead of just taking the meals brought down to medical for you. You slip the keychain into your pocket and bundle your laundry, footsteps echoing in the empty room as you drop your towel into the bin by the door.

“I owe you an apology.”

**“CRIPES?!”**

You jump at least six feet out of your skin, sending your laundry flying as you spin in place to look back towards whoever just broke the silence. Standing at the far end of the room, leaning against the counter, stands Genji.

At least, you _think_ it’s Genji?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man. I so need to draw another ref sheet before the next chapter drops.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My daughter is recovered enough from her surgery to go back to school, which means I get my days and productivity back! And hoo, is it good to be here. I’ve been itching to write but every time I sit down it’s “mommy!” this and “help!” that. Ahh, sweet normalcy...
> 
> Anyway! 20 chapters! A special thanks to the folks who are helping me to make this thing possible, and to those of you who are patient enough to wait for the new content! 
> 
> [Here have a Genji!](http://i.imgur.com/apBtfWB.png)

It’s been a bit of a game to you, comparing the heroes of Overwatch to their in-game counterparts. Most everyone has been spot-on so far, if a bit more detailed.

Genji, however, is an anomaly.

You’re not sure what gives him away first: The bright green hair or the polished plates coating his calves and neck. But those features aside, the cyborg at the far end of the room looks absolutely _nothing_ like the Genji you thought you knew.

He doesn’t have any armor, for one.

He also appears to lack any _skin_ , flesh or otherwise.

From knees to chin, Genji is a tall mass of what appears to be exposed muscle confined only by a sleeveless Lúcio-branded shirt and a pair of loose shorts. It would honestly look hilarious if it were any less disturbing.

The intricately-woven slabs of russet-colored muscle shift and pull as he steps away from the counter to approach you proper. There is an obviously unnatural mesh texture and sheen to the material, breaking the skinless man illusion long enough for you to tear your eyes away from his arms.

“Wow,” you mumble as you force yourself to look at what remains of his face instead. The heavily-scarred and translucent flesh looks almost other-worldly, framed as it is by bright green hair and the dark mechanical structure of what must have once been his jaw. “You’re a walking anatomy textbook huh?”

The occasional ability of your mouth to completely outpace your brain will never cease to both amaze and horrify you. Your hand shoots to cover your face in a display of instant regret, but thankfully his upper lip quirks into a smirk and he laughs softly.

“That is an oddly accurate statement.” It’s surprising to hear that his voice has a slightly metallic, synthesized undertone to it despite his lacking a helmet. His smile falls as he bows forward stiffly. “Please forgive my rudeness. I should have announced myself days ago.”

“Genji, it’s fine.” You’re not entirely sure what the etiquette is when it comes to accepting an apology this… formal. “I mean, you’ve been avoiding me but there’s no harm done. This has been a crazy roller coaster for everyone.”

He straightens and nods, his eyes narrowing as they flicker about your features. You break your gaze with an apologetic smile and set about picking up your thrown laundry.

“I admit this is going better than anticipated. When first we met you attempted to dismantle me.”

“Wait, what?” You tuck your undergarments inside the still-folded jeans and stand again, holding the clothing to your chest. “Did we… Not get along, then?”

“Hardly.” His grin widens and he steps around you, motioning for you to walk with him. He makes absolutely no sound as he moves; it’s no wonder he’d surprised you so badly. “It was not malicious. I am unique, and you were filled to bursting with curiosity.”

“Oh,” you chuckle as you walk alongside him back towards your room. “It must’ve been pretty bad if you were avoiding meeting me for the first time a second time.” You laugh at the complicated structure of that observation.

“In the interest of honesty,” he says suddenly, “that is not the only reason.” He hooks his thumbs into the pockets of his shorts and looks over at you with a suddenly serious expression. “You are aware of what may have been done to your sense of self.”

It isn’t a question. You nod slowly, suspiciously, and he continues:

“If you show intent to harm this family, I will not hesitate to strike you down where you stand. Considering our history I selfishly did not want to bear such a burden.”

Oh.

“We were close?” Genji averts his gaze at your question and stares blankly forward as you walk together.

“We all were,” he replies. “Do not let their smiles fool you; their hearts are still heavy with loss. Few of us are able to view you as someone… New.” Himself included, though it goes unsaid. You continue to walk in an almost awkward silence after that. Regardless, you’re glad for the company.

As you turn down the hallway leading to your quarters, you are surprised to see a robed Zenyatta standing by your door patiently. The sight banishes your discomfort, grinning as you give a wave. The omnic waves in return and gives a nod to the two of you.

“Do my eyes deceive me, my student?” Beside you Genji stiffens like a child caught with their hand in the sweets jar. “It warms my heart to see you in each others’ company. I was prepared to intervene.” His voice radiates with mirth and you can’t help but grin.

“You physically possess _neither_ of those things Zen,” you say as you open your door and toss the bundle of clothing inside with little regard for where it lands. Pulling back to let the door slide closed again, you prop a hand on your hip and shake your head at the omnic. “I feel like I’m missing some sort of in-joke when you do that.”

“Such as it is, little spark.” His confirmation of your suspicions only causes your smile to widen while Genji seemingly flinches at Zenyatta’s nickname for you. You make a mental note to ask him about that later. The cyborg is far more expressive than you thought he would be. “Regardless, had my student not approached you before our departure I fully intended to arrange an introduction.”

“You are meddling, master! It is not necessary!”

“Perhaps that is the case. It seems my _meddling_ was not needed after all.”

You can hear the smile in Zen’s voice, even if his face remains without expression. It takes only a second for his words to catch up to you, however. “Where are you guys going?” Zenyatta tilts his head to the side and you clarify: “You said departure. You’re leaving?”

“There is a mission,” Genji speaks in his place. “Please do not take it personally that we cannot disclose the details. I sought you out to apologize before leaving, as I am unsure how long we will be gone.” Zenyatta nods along and gestures back the way you two came.

“You must be hungry. Please allow us to at least accompany you to the dining hall-” Zenyatta begins, but his offer is swiftly cut off.

“Master,” Genji interrupts. “I must retrieve my armor and make final preparations before we leave. We have already kept the others waiting.”

“Ah, of course. Go in harmony, my student. I shall meet you at the ship.”

Genji stops walking for the briefest moment as you and Zenyatta continue down the hall. “Master?” His call goes unheeded as Zen doesn’t even pause. You, however, stop and turn towards the cyborg.

Even if half of his face is missing, you would know that look anywhere: Concern. He doesn’t want Zenyatta to be left alone with you, and it’s written all over his face. Under any other circumstances, you would probably be offended. You’ve been alone with Zenyatta before, but you don’t think Genji knows that.

“I can go on my own,” you insist, calling Zen back. “But thank you.” The monk stops and nods at you in understanding before walking back to his student’s side. The relief on Genji’s face is instantaneous. “Good luck on the mission, you two. Come back safe.”

You say your farewells and part ways with the duo, walking with haste to the cafeteria. The halls grow more crowded the closer you get. Some faces are vaguely familiar, most aren’t. You don’t think you’ll ever get the hang of being around so many people in such a setting.

And then, the doors open.

Entering the mess hall is like walking into a solid wall of noise. You had thought breakfast time was crowded, but you were obviously wrong.

In one corner a group huddles over a stack of blueprints arguing loudly amongst themselves. In another, a small box on the table projects a baseball game onto the wall. Those gathered on that side of the room whoop and holler over their plates as a delicate-looking omnic in a blue and white uniform steps up to bat. Other tables scattered around the room are blasting music or have holovids playing. There is barely enough room to navigate between the tables.

More than one group turns to point and talk in hushed tones among themselves as you pass on your way to the food. You grit your teeth and try not to notice. You scan the room in search of any Overwatch agents proper but it seems they’re absent, likely a part of the same mission Genji and Zenyatta are leaving on.

You bite back a curse as someone bumps into you a bit too hard while they attempt to squeeze past you. Maybe you should leave and come back for leftovers like you did the night you arrived.

You reach into your pocket and wrap your fingers around the omnic-eye keychain, rubbing your fingers over the smooth parts of the cylinder. You try to distract yourself and keep your hands busy as you step into the lineup leading to the buffet-style trays against the wall. The more people you notice talking _about_ you without speaking _to_ you, the more irritated you get.

By the time you manage to pile your plate with salad and what appears to be some sort of vegetable and sausage medley, your nerves are completely shot. You can’t pin down what it is but something about this room, as full as it is of unfamiliar faces, is destroying your patience. You feel jittery and smothered, as if at any moment the room could collapse on you.

So it is that you nearly drop your plate in an attempt to wrench your arm away when someone grabs your shoulder suddenly. The culprit, an elderly gentleman with asian features, jumps back at your violent motion while raising his hands in a defensive gesture.

“Sorry, sorry!”

Despite his apologetic words, the fox-like grin on his face does not falter. It takes you a moment to recognize him as the accountant-turned-sniper Lena had mentioned on your first morning here. If you remember correctly, he is one of the few volunteers who has advanced to fieldwork. A tall woman with dark skin and a crimson bob cut lurks just behind him, staring at you with wide eyes.

“Should not touch, but you not hear. Come, come,” he insists in broken English as he grabs your arm again. You attempt to pull away but his thin fingers, though loose around your arm, lock like iron. Rather than make a scene in the full hall you go along with him to the nearest exit doors, glancing nervously around. Despite their interest in your arrival, nobody seems to notice you being whisked away but the tall woman. She follows the two of you to the exit.

You grip your fork tighter, prepared to defend yourself if necessary, but the second the doors close behind you the Auditor releases your arm and steps away to give you space. His companion flits to his side, face still set into a deer-in-the-headlights look.

The commotion from the mess hall is a barely-audible din in the otherwise empty hall. You stand there feeling silly with a plate in one hand and utensils in the other, while your two abductors watch you intently.

“Breathe now.” The elderly gentleman finally speaks and his companion nods along as he does so. “Breathe.” His permanent smile is genuinely unsettling as he makes a pacifying motion with his hands. “More space, less people, yes? Less ears. More air.”

You stand there, confused, as this small man attempts to calm you down. To your surprise it’s working. Being out of that crowded space and in the quiet, there is no longer a feeling of panic and irritation crawling at the edges of your consciousness.

“Ah,” he laughs as you visibly relax. “Better. Rosalie?”

The woman beside him finally smiles, but her eyes remain wide and haunted. You wonder to yourself if she always looks so surprised. It’s almost doll-like. Despite their kind intentions, the two of them give off a seriously creepy vibe.

The Auditor nods along sagely as his companion speaks: “Do not overwhelm yourself in your attempts to fit in. It will only draw unwanted attention.” There is a faint hint of a French accent, but you can’t place it further. “You have friends here,” she says in a quiet, reassuring voice. At that, without another word or even allowing you the chance to respond, the two of them disappear back into the dining hall.

“Thanks?” You call towards the now-closed doors, though there’s no way they can hear you now. That was mildly freaky, but you suppose not all heroes wear capes. You do feel better, and remind yourself to thank the two properly when next you see them. You hadn’t realized just how much you were bothered by the crowd until you were out of it.

Your thoughts are pulled back to more important matters as your stomach growls.

“Right, right.”

You gulp down a few bites of your dinner as you walk, making your way back to your room with the plate as you go over your plans for tomorrow in your head.

It’s going to be a busy day. You should really get some rest.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“She’ll be fine,” Winston reassures the pilot over the call. He swipes through the dossier detailing the mission, making a few notes in the digital margins before closing the file. “Angela and I will keep an eye on her Lena, I promise. Let me know when you land?”

“Of course. Get some sleep big guy.”

“Fly safe. Please.”

“Always!”

The call cuts out and he lowers himself down from the tire swing with a sigh.

“Athena, how many more processes can you dedicate to brute-forcing the encryption on that drive?”

“You require rest, Winston.” The AI flickers to life on the screen in front of him, filling the dark office with a cool blue hue. “You have been averaging four-point-nine hours of sleep per evening this week. This is below the recommended amount as determined by-”

“Athena.”

“Diverting further resources will result in the compromise of several low-priority watchpoint functions.”

The gorilla sighs and lifts his glasses off the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his eyes roughly.

“Give me a list.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Orca, somewhere over the North Atlantic Ocean: Genji and Zenyatta sit in the corner having a very serious discussion while Lúcio, Hana, and Soldier: 76 catch an in-flight nap. 
> 
> “Master, this is serious. You must not call her that.” 
> 
> “I find it humorous.” 
> 
> “She does not understand it is a joke. It is cruel.” 
> 
> “So what you are saying is I should educate her on the source of the-”
> 
> “No.”
> 
> “-nickname? I am sure she will find the story truly fascinating.”
> 
> _“Master.”_
> 
> “Your embarrassment is uncalled for. It is a humorous story.”
> 
> “Master _please.”_


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie. The Genji in [this chapter's doodle](http://faranaelit.tumblr.com/post/161302995236/watch-your-step-part-21) gives me life.

“Okay. I can do this. Just grin and bear it.”

Your world is painted a cool blue through the helmet’s visor as you psych yourself up in the small bathroom. You hold the tiny cable in shaking fingers, poised to connect the clasp to the suit’s helmet, but the memory of the burn you acquired last time still haunts you.

Your early morning has been spent getting into your suit properly; Slicking your hair back to fit comfortably under the stretchy headpiece of the suit itself and experimenting with what clothing can be worn beneath the strange material. (Spoiler alert: None. The answer is none.)

“Here goes nothing,” you mutter as you clip the wire in place. Immediately the UI on the inside of the helmet flickers to life and the back of your neck is seared with the intense heat generated by the sensor at the base of your skull.

“Holy mother of fuck-” you hiss through clenched teeth, slamming your fists down onto the counter as you try to avoid clawing at the suit in response to the sudden pain. The heat is gone near-instantly, leaving the site burnt and throbbing.

L O A D I N G . . .  
ERROR! REV AI // OVERRIDE ACTIVE

**_Good morning Agent._ **

The text window hovers just off to the side, mostly transparent so as not to obscure your vision.

“Good morning Rev,” you whimper, fanning at your neck as if the air could help sooth the burn through the suit. “I don’t suppose you can tone down the heat on startup?”

**_Negative. High temperatures are generated as a direct result of your suit’s wireless interfacing technology establishing a connection. Suit functionality would be adversely affected without this connection._ **

“I was afraid not,” you mutter as you walk back into your room. The scales of the suit constrict briefly before resettling in such a way you can barely feel you’re wearing armor at all, as if it’s supporting its own weight. You dig through a storage box, hunting for the clothing you’d seen Agent Snare wearing over it in photographs. You’d thought the fashion strange at first, but now you think you understand former-you’s thinking; This suit leaves little to the imagination.

In the corner of your vision, the AI’s pixelated avatar scans a quickly-scrolling document before doing its characteristic spin and ‘walking’ to sit in the center of your view.

**_You have been injured,_** it accuses. **_You are favoring your left arm and your muscle mass has been negatively affected._**

“Yeah, training accident,” you lie. “We had to re-grow a good chunk of my shoulder from scratch, that’s not surprising. It’s just a bit stiff though, nothing to worry about unless I lift it too high.”

**_One moment please..._ **

The material of the suit shudders and tenses ever-so slightly around your right shoulder, causing you to flinch as the scales tighten around the site of your mostly-healed injury.

**_Calibration complete. How does that feel?_ **

You squint suspiciously at the tiny avatar and cautiously lift your arm to the point it would usually cause a twinge of pain, but that pain doesn’t come. Instead, the tiny scales of the suit compress strategically as your arm lifts, providing support and tension where needed to prevent anything but a slight stiffness from hindering your movement.

“What the…?” A grin lights up your face as you spin your shoulder this way and that, marvelling at the suit’s instant adjustments to keep your arm completely comfortable.

**_And that is why I am currently in charge of suit controls,_** Rev comments. The masked avatar looks far too smug for your liking. **_Loss of voice synthesis is a small price to pay in order to keep you comfortable, Agent._**  

“You’ve got a lot of personality for an AI,” you comment as you pull on the black cargo shorts and fasten the belt around your waist. The jacket is next, and you need to remind yourself that it’s okay to twist your arm to get it on. “Though I guess I’ve only met Athena. One person isn’t a great sample.”

**_Artificial Intelligence Units reflect their creator and purpose,_** Rev states. **_My directive is to keep you healthy, both physically and mentally. A stiff personality would be counterproductive to the latter. I have many conversational and learning modules installed that work to achieve these goals._**

“Neat.” You slip into the suit’s sandals and set about your first task of the day: Coffee.

You take the back way to the kitchens in order to avoid the loud rumble surrounding the mess hall. You don’t need a repeat of last night’s events. The few volunteers you pass on the way stare openly at you, despite your friendly greetings.

It takes you two such encounters to realize that they’re staring at the suit, not you. That’s fair, you remind yourself. Despite meeting you in passing already, none of them have seen Agent Snare in the flesh that you’re aware of; They’re meeting the suit for the first time. You’d probably stare, too.

It doesn’t help that you have the visor down to chat with Rev as you walk, which completely obscures your face. The AI continues to demonstrate its capabilities, layering a minimap-like overlay of the watchpoint in the corner of your vision with a waypoint directing you to the kitchens. It’s admittedly handy, not needing to access Athena with your trivial questions.

The kitchen itself is devoid of organic life, populated only by several robots and drones as they scramble to keep the dining hall supplied with food. You slip unnoticed to the cupboards, pulling out two large mugs and pouring coffee from one of the fresh chafer urns on the way to replenish the cafeteria’s supply.

Unsure of how Angela takes her coffee, you slip a handful of sugar and creamer packets into your pockets before nudging your way out of the kitchens. A short walk and several awkward hallway greetings later you find yourself in Angela’s office, where she is predictably slumped over a stack of papers and dozing away.

“Angie,” you call as you set the mugs down, careful not to spill. “Paging Doctor Ziegler.”

She hums contentedly as she lifts her head and pulls one of the mugs towards her in a zombie-like state. You tug the coffee condiments from your pocket but she shakes her head, reaching instead into her desk and pulling out a sizeable bar of chocolate. She snaps off a square and drops it into the coffee, stirring idly before taking a long sip from the mug. She sighs and smiles, cupping her hands around the hot beverage and propping her elbows up on the desk.

“Tell me you’ve slept somewhere other than your office,” you plead as you raise your visor and lower yourself into the chair opposite hers. Angela laughs and nods, shoving the paperwork into a manilla folder and setting down the now half-empty drink.

“A full twelve hours, I will have you know.” She reaches into a different drawer and pulls out a fresh tube of the numbing cream, sliding it across the desk towards you. “I have only been here a few minutes. The rest was needed, as is the coffee. Thank you.”

Her brow quirks as she looks you over. “You are trying the suit again. Have there been any complications with the neural interface? Controlling the nanobots cannot be easy without your previous experience.”

“Nah,” you frown as you tap the side of the helmet. “Rev’s taking care of suit stuff right now. Something about security protocols.” You sip at your coffee as Angela flips the file open once again. “The suit makes it easier to use my arm, too. Not sure how it all works but I’m not complaining.”

“This is good,” she says. “However, please inform your AI that coddling that shoulder may impede the healing process.” You peek at the papers in front of her as she begins listing off a number of stretches she would like you to perform a few times a day. It’s odd that she’s left the folder open, considering the nature of her work. She notices your gaze but, instead of closing the folder she finishes her speech.

“As for this,” she changes her tone drastically afterwards, shifting from medical professional to concerned friend in an instant. She flips the file around and pushes it towards you. “I would like your consent to send some samples to a colleague of mine at the Charité. I believe he may have access to better equipment to diagnose the cause of your… Reaction.”

She reaches over, tapping a nail against the paper in a few places as she speaks.

“The paperwork includes all medically and potentially otherwise relevant information. I have never had much to go on as far as medical history when it comes to you, but what I do know is to be included along with the samples.”

You quickly read through the single sheet of paper which lists your blood type, previous known injuries, weight and height, and other items. Nothing you didn’t already know, aside from some healed injuries from over a year ago.

“If you send this off to your friend in… Where?”

“The Charité. It is a learning hospital in Berlin.”

“Right. Well if you send this off, will you take some time for yourself while your friend gives it a go? You’re working too hard on this Angela.”

She goes silent and you look up from the paper to see her studying you with narrowed eyes.

“That is your concern?” She says slowly, deliberately. You nod and she frowns. “You must pardon my surprise. I should be clear, you would never have agreed to this before. You were a very private person. I do not want to feel as though I am taking advantage of your condition.”

You flip the folder closed and slide it back towards her with a smile.

“Angela, don’t. If you think your friend has the tech to figure this out, and it takes a bit of the stress off your shoulders, go ahead and send it off. I don’t give two shits about what the old me would have done. You have good intentions, and if it’s medically relevant I’m not going to say no.”

You can see a tension you weren’t aware she was holding leave her posture as she sighs and takes the file. Standing, she slips her arms through the lab coat hanging off the back of her chair and walks to stand by the door to her office.

“In that case, thank you. I have exhausted my resources here, but the facilities at the Charité are some of the best in the world. And I could certainly use a break, I agree.” She brushes some dust you can’t see off of her coat. “I need to prepare the samples for transport. Thank you for the coffee, Snare. Leave the mugs, I’ll send them back later.”

You drain the last of your coffee and set the mug next to hers before flipping your visor back into place and turning the world blue once again. Rev’s avatar sits in the corner, idle.

“Thanks for all your hard work Angela. I may not understand what’s going on very well, but you’re working really hard on this because of me and I appreciate it. Want me to bring coffee again tomorrow morning for my daily check-in?”

The medic’s eyes brighten, and this time you can’t help but notice how different her real grin looks compared to her professionally courteous smile. You make a mental note to get that smile out of her more often. It looks good on her.

“I will look forward to it.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

“Next visit, the workshop. Any chance I can get a waypoint, Rev?”

The minimap, for lack of a better name, expands to display a complicated 3D layout of the facility. A large section a few floors down highlights and a pulsing line projects onto the inside of your visor, running along the floor in front of you and forking at the next hallway. You raise an eyebrow quizzically; having the route go in two opposite directions is hardly useful.

**_Two optimal routes found, with the option of taking an elevator or stairwell. Please confirm._ **

“Oh!” You try to will the map to turn so you can get a better look, but the interface doesn’t respond as well to your gaze as the two-dimensional logs you’d read through before. You raise an experimental hand into your line of sight, flicking the air in front of you. You grin in victory as the interface on your visor responds to the movements as if manipulating a touch screen.

“The stairs actually look faster, let’s go that way.”

The guide flashes and the forked path disappears, leading you left and into officially unfamiliar territory. According to the map a good portion of Gibraltar seems to be hollow, with miles of snaking tunnels and cavernous chambers cut deep into the rock. You zoom the map out as you walk, marvelling at just how far the facilities extend past the two floors of the watchpoint you’ve seen so far.

“Good thing you’re here bud. I’d get so lost in here otherwise. Cripes, this is huge…”

**_The Rock of Gibraltar was partially excavated for military use during the mid-20th century. It is unknown if the Overwatch organization selected Gibraltar as a watchpoint location in order to utilize these tunnels, however it is extremely likely._** The text window’s opacity lowers somewhat as you tap your way down the narrow stairwell. **_Data from historical records of the tunnels has been merged with the official watchpoint documentation to build as accurate a layout as possible, however I can not guarantee accuracy beyond what is contained in my personal records. Please exercise caution when navigating the lower facilities._**

You exit the stairwell several floors down and instantly note the difference in construction. Where the upper floors are sleek and automated with brushed steel and ceramic, the corridor you find yourself in now is concrete, concrete, and more concrete. The halls are wide enough to drive a small car through, with caged fluorescent tube lighting rigged to the ceiling. Gone are the futuristic automatic doors of the upper levels, replaced instead by large industrial doors and keypad locks. Athena’s black terminals dot the hall at irregular intervals, the cabling zip-tied to the lighting fixtures above you.

“Show me what we know for sure,” you request as you follow the waypoint past door after door.

**_Affirmative._ **

A good 90% of the map blinks and fades from white to red, with an even smaller portion of the topmost floors shifting green.

“What am I looking at?”

**_Athena’s network and location data confirmed via my own logs has been highlighted._** The white and green portions of the map light up as the AI mentions them. You gape at the sheer size of the area not covered.

“Are the tunnels safe to explore?”

**_Unknown._** And then a moment later, a new line appears in the text window as the waypoint vanishes: **_You have reached your destination._**

“Thanks Rev,” you mumble as you push through the set of swinging doors at the very end of the corridor.

The cavern is truly massive.

You take in the room slowly, or what you can see of it. Wheeled metal racks and cages turn the open space labyrinthine, lined with glistening tools, weapons, and bins of materials. Wooden pallets litter what floor space is left, piled high with tarped lumps and strange machinery. The concrete is stained heavily in places with grease and oil.

Support beams, lighting, and cables mesh across the ceiling, dipping down to connect machinery and workstations to the grid. You poke a dangling power outlet idly as you pass, causing the lights above it to bounce and swing playfully as it moves.

It’s organized chaos, you think. As jumbled as everything seems at first glance, each bin and tool has a label affixed. You peer into the plastic tubs full of bolts and cables and washers and other miscellany as you wander, searching for the source of the distorted chatter and mechanical whirring you can hear echoing through the cavern.

And then, hidden from view in the center of the various hardware piles and part racks, you find the engineers.

The circular clearing amidst the chaos, rimmed with workbenches and wheeled stools, is oddly quiet despite the ten or so people in coveralls manning them. Each voice is a murmur, as if the men and women are afraid to disturb each other. Occasionally the low drone is interrupted by the whirr and crackle of tools.

Every head in the room but one rises as you enter the space. You can recognize the two mechanic brothers waving from where two benches have been shoved together, and a few other faces from around the watchpoint, but nobody actually says hello. They glance nervously towards the opposite end of the clearing, where Torbjörn’s unmistakable form sits hunched over a large turret with his back to you.

He doesn’t even look up from the mess of wires he’s fist-deep in, waving over his shoulder with his good hand for you to come closer. As you approach you can see a grid of security feeds projected over the bench beside him. He’d seen you coming.

“About time,” he says. You flinch at the volume, sudden and boisterous in the hushed space. Peering around him, you see his face scrunched in concentration as he weaves a bundle of tiny wires together. His good eye gleams when he looks over to you, a smile evident beneath his intricately braided facial hair.

“I ‘vondered if ye ‘vere… Ah, never mind all’a that. Pass the insulation vhile yer here. Ten mil.”

You reach across a nearby workbench and quickly grab one of the tape rolls, passing it into his outstretched _distinctly_ un-clawlike prosthetic palm. Seeing the man with a normal-looking left hand is quite frankly surprising, though you suppose the claw would be impractical for everyday life.

“Now missy,” he chuckles as the false fingers wrap around the roll, pulling it into his field of vision. “Ye cannot pass any ol’ tool, I need-” He cuts off as he actually reads the text on the inside of the roll, brow lifting in surprise. “Oh, that’s it. ‘Vell.”

The other engineers in the room giggle at their benches and the small man bristles, wrapping the wires before ripping the tape and passing it back to you. You slip it back where you pulled it from to a satisfied hum. Torbjörn shifts and holds his hand out towards you once again, staring intently at something inside the machine.

“Nearly done,” he mumbles, “and I’ll give ye’ the grand tour. Pass me a cap.”

Without thinking you grab a plastic device from one of the small bins and he takes it from you with barely any acknowledgement. This continues for a few minutes, the two of you passing tools back and forth in relative silence while the others lose interest and go back to their projects and repairs.

“‘Vould you look at that,” he says suddenly. You lean in to peer at the wiring he’s working on, but nothing jumps out at you.

“At what?”

“Seems ye still know yer ‘vay around the tools.” He slams the panel shut, patting the turret he’s been working on before dabbing at his brow with a rag from his belt. Finally, he turns to look at you proper. “Come ‘vith me. I ‘vant to test something.”

Torbjörn gives a shove and the wheeled stool he’s sitting on rolls to the side and away from you, towards one of the vacant stations. He pulls a toolbox from underneath it and begins laying tools out on the table in a row.

“What do you mean? I just passed you what you asked for.”

“Exactly,” he mumbles as you peek at the tools which all possess curiously small tips. The others in the room have gotten distracted again, openly staring at whatever is going on between you two. “Give me yer arm.”

Without waiting for a response, he grabs your wrist and slips some sort of band over the material of your suit. A coiled cable connects the band to a slot in the bench, effectively tethering you to the tabletop. A small light blinks on after a moment and Torbjörn hums yet again.

He seems happy enough, but you’re not sure you like where this is going. You can only watch in confusion as he propels his wheeled seat about the room, collecting various objects from bins and shelves before setting them on the surface in front of you. Finally, he pulls an opaque plastic bag from a cubby beside his own workstation, slipping what looks like a tiny circuit board out of the bag and placing it carefully in front of you.

The display behind the workbench immediately flickers to life, magnifying the section of desk the board sits on several times over.

“Everything ye need to fix it is here,” he prompts, gesturing to the lineup of tools and tiny trinkets he’s placed on the table. “I ‘vant ye to try. Don’t ‘vorry about breaking it further,” he chuckles. “It’s already been replaced, this is just scrap.”

Wait, what?

“Torb, I don’t know anything about electronics-”

“And I bet ye don’t know a thing about tools, either?” He picks up one of the devices you’d absent-mindedly passed him earlier. “Ye just don’t know that ye know. Try.” The look on his face makes it very clear this is not a request. You’re starting to see why the other engineers and mechanics think of him as such a hardass.

“And the rest of ye!” His bellow is sudden and loud, causing you (and everyone else in the room) to jump. “Those ‘verk orders ‘von’t fill themselves! Back to it!” The room’s occupants turn back to their jobs, glancing back your way when they think he’s not looking anymore.

You push your visor up and stare at the delicate circuits on the table in front of you as Torbjörn hovers off to your side.

Fix it, he says. Don’t worry, he says. _Try_ , he says.

You try to swallow the dry lump in your throat, suddenly thankful you didn’t actually have breakfast as your stomach churns. You can feel moisture building up beneath your suit’s skin-tight hood.

“‘Vell?”

You desperately search the magnified view of the board for something, _anything_ , that might hint at what’s wrong with it; A burnt spot, a bent pin, missing solder, a crack, some visual cue that you can work off of.

Your breathing quickens as the nerves truly hit you, the pressure to succeed causing your pulse to go haywire and your chest to tighten. You’ve got nothing. You have no idea what to do. His heart is in the right place, but why does he have to push so hard so suddenly? You just wanted to see the workshop, maybe lend a hand if you could before going about your day. But this?

“This is bullsh-” you begin to say, but you stop short as a loud clatter fills the room followed by a very distinct brand of aussie-accented cursing.

“Who in the shit stacked those there,” Junkrat screeches as he stumbles into view around the corner with two heavy-looking jugs resting on his shoulders. Roadhog is close behind with jugs of his own in each massive hand. Rat kicks a chunk of fallen scrap metal out of his way, face contorted and eyes glittering with fury. “Tryin’ to break me neck, are ya? I knew it!”

His gaze falls immediately to where you stand with Torbjörn, stunned into a temporary silence at his loud arrival. The fury melts into glee as he takes in your armor, eyes lingering a bit too long on the way up.

You’re thankful your visor is raised out of the way, because the second your eyes meet his foolish grin falters ever-so-slightly and whatever inappropriate quip he has had planned is lost as he notices your obvious panic.

“Oh, you were down ‘ere,” he says instead. “The ape was askin’ round. Sounded _real_ important-like.” The nearest engineer shrieks as he drops the heavy containers down on her workbench with a loud crash. “Oh rack off,” he spits, breaking eye contact with you just long enough to tell her off. “It’s just p’tassium nitrate. Not gonna’ blow. It _cannot_ blow!”

The woman scrambles away regardless, prompting a dramatic eye roll and shrug from the Junker in response. Ignoring the canisters he’s just put down, he closes the distance between you in a few strides, towering over the Swede who simply sighs and shakes his head.

“‘Vell, it cannot be helped. I’ll leave this here,” he turns away from Rat and slides the circuit board back into the bag, setting it aside as the display behind the table turns off. “Come back ‘vhen you have time. ‘Ve’ll be here.”

You shoot Junkrat one last glance before lowering your visor and covering your face once again, chewing at your lower lip beneath the glass. Knowing they can’t see your face is comforting in a way.

“‘Vait,” Torbjörn calls as you turn to walk away. “Yer still grounded.”

“ _What?_ ” You hiss, whipping around to face him with more hostility than intended. “I’m not a-” You stop as your wrist snags and you realize you’re still connected to the bench by the coiling cable. Oh, _grounded_. As in, static electricity. You tear it off and reluctantly put it back where you somehow _know_ it’s supposed to go, though you’re not sure how. You reach to put the other tools back where he’d gotten them, but force yourself to stop when you realize your hands are shaking quite violently.

“She ain’t a work order, _mate_.” Junkrat puts heavy emphasis on the word as he stands over the head engineer. Torbjörn’s annoyed frown slips somewhat as he realizes the accusation being thrown at him. “She don’t need fixin’. Lay off the repairs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you guys be at all interested in a written account of the Moscow incident? It would be posted separately, and likely from Junkrat’s POV to keep the feel separate from “current” Snare.
> 
> I just have so many notes for what happened in Moscow and I don’t know if it will ever be relevant enough to the current story to visit in anything but the occasional flashback or mention. It’d be a one-shot affair.
> 
> Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention we get up to all sorts of hijinks in my [Discord chat server](https://discord.gg/BfxnRfe), including creating Snare Emoji and discussing other fun things?
> 
> Because we totally do that.

Despite all the moments, comfort, and laughs you’ve shared since your arrival there is one very important fact about your two new friends that is easy to overlook:

They are not overly honest people.

It isn’t until you’re in sight of the door to Winston’s office that Junkrat sees fit to remind you as such, stopping his idle chatter to suddenly grab you by the wrist before you can actually knock on the door.

“Whoopsie, got a bit lost in convo’ there. Ya’ _might_ not wanna’ do that.”

He smiles apologetically and tugs you in the opposite direction as you sputter in confusion. Even through your suit you can feel the heat radiating from his palm as you are practically dragged down the hallway. Roadhog follows at a short distance, as he usually does.

A small part of your brain can’t help but think it’s the perfect hook range.

“Ape’s a bit touchy ‘bout company what drops in unannounced lately,” Junkrat explains, chuckling to himself as if he’s told a joke. The pieces slip together and you frown behind your visor as you realize Winston had never been looking for you in the first place.

“You lied,” you accuse as Rat drags you through the base. He turns to look at you with manic eyes and a wide smile.

“No shit, _really?_ ” Behind the two of you, Hog wheezes a low laugh. “And here I thought we was honest folk, Hoggie! I'll have to mend me ways. Next time maybe leave the poor Shiela to havin’ her skull tinka’d with.”

“She was fine,” Hog grunts as Rat barks a laugh.

“And that's why _I'm_ the boss! I'm obviously the brains of this operation. Honestly.” His ear-splitting cackle echoes off the tiles. “What would you do without yer buddy Junkrat to save yer ass, ay Sheila? How many d’ya owe me now? I’m keepin’ a tab.”

“Don’t.” Hog interrupts, suddenly reaching between you and gripping Rat’s wrist tightly causing the younger junker to release you in turn. The three of you jerk to a stop, Rat’s good arm twisting in a way that makes your stomach lurch as the behemoth glares at him.

“Oi,” Rat protests with a growl.

“No.” Roadie hisses in return, barely audible through the distortion of his mask. “You’re the one owes, jackass. _Don’t._ ” Junkrat’s wince of pain aside, his eyes flit between Roadie’s mask and your own visor frantically.

“I didn’t forget me debt,” he whimpers. The sudden squeak to his words catches you by surprise and goes completely against the scrunched anger on his features.

“Debt?”

Your mouth gets away from your brain once again and you silently kick yourself for it as both junkers flinch. You release your grip on Roadhog’s arm just as he drops Rat’s to move back a step. Rubbing the joint cautiously, Junkrat looks to you with a renewed grin that doesn’t in any way reach his eyes.

“Nothin’ I ain’t workin’ on.”

Even though your face is obscured by near-opaque glass, he looks directly into your eyes as he says it. His voice is razor-sharp and deadly serious, completely contrary to his smile. And then, quick enough to cause whiplash, his tone relaxes and he barks another laugh as if it had never happened.

“Y’need to start telling that lot to rack off though. Or spend more time with us so we can do it for ya. Ay Roadie?”

“Your evasion of the subject is noted,” you say dryly as he turns and walks away from the two of you with a spring in his step. You look to Hog and raise an eyebrow before remembering he can’t see your face, cocking your head to the side instead. He shrugs in return. You’re starting to appreciate the fine art that is body language.

“Not my place to say,” he grunts in response to your silent question. “Kid’s right though; Y’need to get mad.”

You sigh and pat the big guy’s arm as you pass on your way to follow Junkrat. “Would if I could,” you mutter as you pull the omic-eye keychain from your pocket and dangle it in front of you. “It’s weird. I never know how I’m supposed to act, and still get all upset over the oddest things. Did you know I almost had a panic attack in the mess hall yesterday?” You gently squeeze the memento in your palm, upset you can’t feel the delicate ridges and grooves properly through the glove of your suit.

“If that Auditor guy and his friend hadn’t pulled me out I might have had a breakdown.” You slip your hands into the pockets of your baggy shorts and take a peek over at Hog as he walks beside you in silence. How Junkrat can ever tell what he’s thinking, you don’t think you’ll ever know.

You’re startled by the slam of a door as Junkrat turns a corner ahead of you, followed quickly by the erratic thumping of foot and peg on stairs. You glance at Rev’s map, realizing that you’ve circled back around to the staircase leading down to the workshop. But Rat doesn’t turn off towards the shop at all, leading you instead down a second flight and out into a new, barely illuminated corridor.

“Where are we going?”

**_Unknown. Please exercise caution._ **

Rev’s avatar flickers to life in the corner of your vision closest to its map, drawing your attention to it. The hall at this level is red, indicating the map is based off of blueprints alone. It’s dark, the only light being cast from the open door behind you and a few dirty bulbs strung from long-ago rusted shop lights. Junkrat turns another corner and Hog sighs before pushing past you to pursue him.

**_Not exactly a talkative brute._ **

“Don’t be rude,” you mutter as you follow behind Hog. The suddenly chilly and damp air down here sends a shiver up your spine. “You pop up at the strangest times, you know.” Ahead of you, Hog grunts and looks over his shoulder. You tap the side of your helmet.

“Suit AI,” you explain. He nods in understanding and continues forward.

**_I am constantly active,_** Rev responds, ** _as I am currently overriding all suit functions. Also of note: Agents Rutledge and Fawkes lack access to my display and as such cannot interpret my commentary as ‘rude’._**

“Oh god, don’t call them that. It’s just weird.” Rev makes a good point though, and you lower your voice to a barely-audible mumble lest you be seen as talking to yourself. “And if anything it makes it even more rude talking behind their backs like that. Just because they can’t hear- er, _read_ you doesn’t mean you can just say whatever.”

**_Understood._ **

You wait for more, but Rev has gone silent at your scolding.

“Okay then, now you’re just sulk-”

“Mind your feet.”

You look ahead and stagger to a stop just in time to avoid crashing into Roadhog where he stands holding an arm out to block the hall. Just past him, scattered around the floor are numerous (very obvious) metal contraptions that resemble Junkrat’s traps. No, wait, they _are_ traps. The hall is littered with bear traps. Oh boy.

“Oh, those!” Rat calls from somewhere ahead. “Yeah, might wanna’ watch’ya step. Easy to avoid ‘em unless ya run. Hang on a tick, I’ll be right out.”

“‘ _Unless you run’_? That’s not ominous at all.” You call out and get a cackle in response. The exasperated sigh Hog emits is downright endearing. Without thinking you pat at what you can reach of his back in an understanding gesture. He tenses somewhat and you withdraw your hand.

True to his word, a few moments later Junkrat spins out of a side door and spins through the pile of traps with surprising grace while holding something behind his back. You applaud with a smile as he stops in front of Hog and gives an exaggerated bow.

“M’lady,” he drawls, obviously trying very hard to contain his own laughter before righting himself and holding out an empty palm. “Put’cher arm out and shut your eyes! The right one, if ye’ please.”

You slowly extend your arm, and he looks up at you suspiciously.

“Eyes.”

You close your eyes tightly and he hums in satisfaction.

“Just so you ain’t caught by surprise when it matters,” he says as he fiddles with your wrist, turning it this way and that. “I can see through me reflection when it’s darker out the glass than in.”

Ah, you hadn’t even thought of the glass like a one-way mirror! You make a mental note that the visor isn’t a hide-all solution as you wait for the go-ahead to look.

“Wot?” Junkrat mumbles after a few seconds, his hands pausing their tinkering at yours. Immediately after there is a chuckle from both junkers. “Nah, I don’t think ya fuckin’ rude! We’ve been through this, mate.”

“Eh?” You open your eyes to see a wall of backwards text filling your vision briefly before it flickers out and your normal suit UI returns. A tiny musical note hovers over Rev’s avatar as it sits off to the side.

“You little shit-” you mutter, trying feign anger at the AI’s attempt at appearing innocent until Rat releases your wrist. A sudden weight drags it down and you are startled out of your mock fury as he scrambles to support the limb, fingers working deftly around the seams of the device now connected to you.

WEAPONS MODULE : SYNC SUCCESSFUL

The text flashes in front of you as technical jargon and stats scroll through the log, but your focus is mostly on the familiar block of white and blue now attached to your suit at the wrist.

It’s the weapon from Soldier’s failed training exercise, the wrist-mounted dart gun. Only this time it isn’t trailing wires to connect it to a battery pack. The material of your suit shudders suddenly and the weapon becomes seemingly weightless.

**_Calibration complete._** It still amazes you that a tiny pixelated avatar can look so proud of itself. **_Perhaps thanks are in order. Their absence may be considered rude._**

“Where did you get this thing? Is it a spare?” You peer past a rather satisfied-looking Junkrat into the dim hall, but can’t make anything out past the traps.

“Nicked it-” “Nicked it,” the two junkers respond in unison, pausing for a moment before the sync catches up to them.

  


 

Junkrat squeaks comically and points at Roadhog, looking back and forth between the two of you with the cheesiest grin on his face. Hog appears both disgusted and personally offended at this and takes a step back to lean against the concrete wall, crossing his arms defiantly over his gut.

You hold back a giggle yourself as you pull your arm back, twisting the wrist this way and that to get a feel for the connections. The ammunition indicator shines full and blue in the dark, shimmering and pulsing as you move.

“You’re… Arming me?”

Any serious reply Hog has is lost as Rat doubles over gripping his middle and howling with renewed mirth. It takes you a moment to catch on, but as Hog lifts Rat by the back of his scruffy tank to keep him from rolling into the traps you make the connection:

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Despite your serious tone, there’s no hiding the pull at the corners of your lips. “Yes Junkrat; Wrist gun, arming, very funny.” You wiggle the fingers of your right hand at him as he dangles in Hog’s grip trying hopelessly to contain himself. “Seriously though. Giving me a gun might not be the best idea, if Ja- if Soldier has anything to say about it.”

“Fitting. He’s who we nicked it from.” Roadhog turns and drops Rat on his ass away from the traps littering the hallway. “Acts tough. Not in charge here though. It won’t matter.”

“Did’ja know the old prick _naps_?” Junkrat wipes tears from his eyes and settles himself comfortably on the concrete where he’s been dropped, seeming oddly at home here. “It was too easy, really. And all y’ammo was still in the store, nicked that too. Hog, go grab a crate.”

Roadhog levels a stare at you for a brief moment before waddling through the maze of traps towards the same door Rat had emerged from.

“‘Security’ they say. Special trainin’ for the lot. Hall partners. Guns.” Junkrat’s metal fingers click mechanically as he lifts them one-by-one. “All ‘cause of you, Sheila.” He closes the fingers and presses his thumb to an invisible detonator. “Way we see it, that ain’t exactly fair. Most’a those goody two-shoes ain’t seen war up close. They’re jumpy. Any of them find out _you’re_ the threat? I think they might play at bein’ hero if you follow.”

You lean against the wall opposite him and cross your arms, thinking on his words for a minute or two.

“You don’t trust the volunteers.”

It’s not a question, and from the uncharacteristically serious expression plastered on Junkrat’s face you’re right on the money.

“The Ape’s recall brought all kinds. Nerd types, milit’ry, mercs chasin’ freedom and credits. Vigi- Vigelites-”

“Vigilantes,” Hog offers as he shuffles towards you with a small crate under one arm.

“Right, that one.” Rat makes grabby hands for the crate, which Hog ignores. He looks on the verge of going on a tirade, but catches himself when Hog points to redirect his attention back to you. “Well, they all had one thing in common, see? The ape knows ‘em. We get a team goin’ and while the money ain’t _quite_ what we was promised, it’s a sweet enough deal am I right Hoggie?”

Roadhog nods and gives a thumbs-up.

“Then a few months in, we lose ya. Shit ‘round here gets right dark, right quick while we play a fucked up game of cat’n rat tryin’ to get _you_ back. And just when it seems like things are gonna’ go belly-up?”

Junkrat pauses his story and knocks on the concrete floor below him with his metal hand, the _tink tink tink_ reverberating in the space.

“Just like that, they start showin’ up. ‘Eard the call, they say. They don’t want pay, they just want t _’help the cause._ ”

He narrows his eyes and looks up at you from where he sits, mouth pressed into a thin line. Your own brows are scrunched in concern as you think along with what he’s saying.

“A rule back home,” Roadhog digs into the box and passes you a few ammo cartridges which you immediately stuff into your pockets. A handful of idle shock traps follow their dart brethren, but through the thick material of your shorts the pockets barely look full. “Everyone is an enemy. Anyone will kill you. Unless they prove otherwise.”

You give the straps holding the dart launcher in place a good tug, adjusting the fit. It was one thing to fire at robots during training, but you can’t help feeling the junkers may be a bit paranoid considering the setting. Nobody here is going to try to kill you unless you deserve it.

“So you don’t trust them as far as you can throw them.” You pat the gun on your arm and nearly raise it towards Junkrat threateningly as an example, but think better of it. “And yet I get outfitted with a weapon and you constantly break the don’t-get-caught-alone rule.”

Junkrat’s face lights up with a grin yet again as Hog looks his way, and without any hesitation the two of them turn to you and speak in unison:

“You’ve proven otherwise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make absolutely no promises, but illustrations may become a slightly more frequent occurrence when I have time. I polished a rough sketch I'd done earlier to post along with this one as a bit of an apology for taking so long to get back to things. I don't really have an excuse for these short absences aside from my mental health not being the greatest. 
> 
> Thank you guys for your patience. It means so much for me.


	23. Chapter 23

Trust is a valuable thing.

As you sit on your ass looking down the barrel of a grenade launcher, ears ringing and scattered particles of dust and sand creeping through the gaps in your helmet, you marvel at how easily you’ve come to trust the Junkers.

Perhaps it’s because of that feeling of surprise that they’ve come to reciprocate; That you jumped in feet-first and just let things happen. Sure, their somewhat protective streak after your rescue had helped, but something had just  _clicked_. You weren’t afraid to treat them like you would anyone else. You weren’t afraid in general. You didn’t clutch your belongings ever-so-slightly tighter when the two were around.

Easy to break and difficult to earn, it’s hard to believe that the arguably most paranoid residents of Watchpoint: Gibraltar have given you their trust.

But is it really that simple?

“Y’need to move with the blast.” The weapon is lowered and an extended hand takes its place, its owner betraying no hint of apology or concern for tossing you fifteen feet across the beach a few moments prior. “Don’t fight the impact. Gotta go with it.”

“Try going with anything when you’re being thrown around by live explosives,” you grumble as you take Junkrat’s hand and are unceremoniously lifted to your feet. A few yards away, Roadhog shakes sand from his hair while waiting for you to find your feet again. “Those mines of yours pack one fuck of a punch.”

Junkrat’s eyes light up at the praise, a strangled giggle barely audible as he turns to hobble his way back to the box of stock propped against the cliff.

The beach is small, nestled up against the cliffs on the eastern side of The Rock. In the distance you can see the tall fences keeping the general public from wandering into the testing range, but here there are just rocks, sand, and more rocks. The Alboran sea extends as far out as you can see, the wind blowing in off the surface cooling you off even through your suit.

When Junkrat had mentioned in the tunnels that he had a new batch of explosives to test, you had tried to back out gracefully with the excuse of training on your own. Having none of that, Rat had then invited you along to their little testing range to train alongside them as he worked the kinks out of his less lethal ammunition prototypes. His claim being that Roadhog made a terrible target since he could stay standing through just about anything.

You had expected Roadie, ever the voice of reason, to shoot down the idea.

He hadn’t.

And so your afternoon has been spent working on your focus, trying to keep a level enough head to mind your surroundings. As much as that can be done while dodging flash-bangs and swinging chains.

“Fancy another go at it, then?”

You pull your eyes from the rippling water and look back towards the two, Junkrat loaded with experimental explosives and Hog with his hook dangling from his fist by the chain.

“Already? That was quick.”

The quip is lost on Junkrat as he hobbles to take his place near the water, peg sinking into the sand and turning his already awkward limp into a flailing mess. Hog’s brief snort of laughter, however, causes you to smirk.

You look between the two of them, positioned on opposite ends of the small beach, and take a deep calming breath.

 ** _Need I remind you this is not an approved training regimen,_**  Rev’s display flashes in the corner of your vision, the font several sizes larger than normal as it tries to demand your attention. The AI has not been happy about your choice of activity given your lack of experience. ** _High-impact concussive blasts may damage armor integrity if shields are not properly operational-_**

“Shields are at full,” you call loud enough for both of the junkers to hear over the sound of the tide. “Let’s dance, boys.”

No sooner are the words out of your mouth than Hog’s hook shoots past your face, prompting you to curse and duck, twisting out of the way of its swing. With a flick of his wrist the chain pulls taut and back, barely missing you as you drop to the sand.

Surprisingly, dodging the hook has been the easiest part of today’s training with the two. Unlike the video game mechanics you were used to back in the simulation, the mass of barbed steel presents little threat on its initial flight. It’s the return path you need to focus on dodging if you want to avoid trouble.

A soft  _pop_ from off to your side shifts your focus from one junker to the other, breaking into a sprint towards the rocks in order to clear the trajectory of the small shell which explodes in a flash that would be blinding without the filter of your visor. You jump as you reach the cliffs, rebounding off the wall with surprising ease, to dodge a second grenade and keep your momentum up as you run for Junkrat.

As he’s done countless times today already, he pulls a concussion mine from one of his pouches and tosses it straight at you with no restraint, his thumb on the detonator and a manic grin on his face. This time however you’re prepared, having learned much from a long afternoon of facing his test batch of nonlethal (if painful) devices. You trust your instincts, taking his advice to heart as you launch yourself up and into the air over the mine with as much strength as you can manage without the suit’s augmentation. He pushes the button on his detonator out of reflex, and you can feel Rev tightening your suit’s scales to brace for the impact and keep you from ragdolling.

Rat’s eyes widen as the wave of force explodes from the mine, propelling you directly into his chest. You push your weaponized wrist to his throat as the momentum thrusts the two of you off-balance and into the wet sand, both of you grunting with the impact.

He flails and tries to double over himself despite your presence on his chest, the wind thoroughly knocked out of him.

“Thanks for the tip,” you laugh as you pull your weapon from his chin and lift your visor.

“You lose.”

You jump as a length of chain wraps around your neck and pulls back with just enough pressure to be threatening. Your limbs flail, sending sand everywhere as you try to press back into Roadhog to alleviate the tension. Thankfully he only tugs you far enough to free Junkrat before releasing the chain and winding the length back onto its spool with a menacing jingle.

“That’s still a point for me,” you insist as you extend a hand to help the still-sputtering Junkrat to his feet in a show of sportsmanship. You struggle for a moment to support his weight in the sand, but the segments of your suit click suddenly and you find he feels light enough to pull up with ease. He gulps air and grips his middle with one arm, but still shoots you a thumbs-up to confirm he’s fine.

Before you can thank Rev for its assistance, the access gate set into the rock wall opens with the ear-splitting groan of aging metal.

“Good, good! Train, yes? Good! Hello!”

The Auditor’s broken english calls across the beach and the junkers both stiffen, Rat’s fingers twitching towards the experimental explosives on his harness. The leather of Hog’s gloves creaks with the strength of his grip on his hook.

It’s moments like these you realize just how lucky you are that you aren’t a subject of their paranoia. The instant hostility is a stark contrast to the light-hearted mood not a moment before. You turn to the gate and shoot the old man a wide grin that falters somewhat as you realize his doll-like companion is accompanying him.

You owe these two, you remind yourself. Creepy demeanor or no. Be polite.

“Hey you two!” You attempt to shift the hostile mood as you brush sand from your shorts. The old man smiles at you as he always does, eyes crinkled and narrow as he steps gingerly onto the sand from the rocks. Unlike your last encounter, there is a rather large rifle swung over his shoulder and his clothes are dark and bulky. His companion sports similar attire, silvery blades lining her belt in the place of any visible firearm.

“Range is off-limits,  _mate_.”

Junkrat takes a step forward, stretching his back in such a way that completely dwarfs the tiny sniper.

The Auditor looks up to meet Rat’s stony gaze and if anything his fox-like grin widens. Very slowly and deliberately, fully aware of the risks associated with surprising a moody junker, he reaches into his vest and pulls out a folded slip of paper.

“Mouse is here,” he says with surprising mirth, “and so I come. Work, yes? Job? Work?”

Junkrat’s brows scrunch together as he swipes the paper from the Auditor’s grasp. He skims the work order, eyes widening as his gaze travels further down the page. You peek around his arm at the rather sizeable list and let out a whistle. You may not know what the majority of these requests are, but you know there’s a lot of them.

“Crikey,” Junkrat mutters, all traces of hostility gone and replaced with amusement. “One fuck of a demo... We got a mission lined up? ‘Notha’ base job?”

At the mention of a mission, Roadhog is suddenly behind the two of you. He reaches forward and plucks the list from Junkrat’s hand, giving it a read himself before passing it back with a mutter of “two weeks.”

“Yes mission,” the Auditor shakes his head. “But not you. Just to make. How to… Hmm.” Junkrat raises an eyebrow as the little man struggles to find the correct words.

“Pretty sure business like this is in me job description, mate.”

“There are Omnics on the team,” the tall woman, Rosalie if you remember correctly, speaks from the gate. “They are non-negotiable and I believe you have a contract regarding Omnic relations, Mister Fawkes-”

 _“Fuck off.”_  Junkrat growls, voice dripping with enough bitter hatred that even the Auditor’s composure slips and the old man stumbles a step back towards the rocks. “Bad ‘nuff the Monkey won’t quit that shit but he’s at least payin’ us.  _You’ve_ got no right.” Rosalie simply smiles, seemingly happy to have gotten Rat’s hackles up. Combined with her permanently wide eyes, the small pleased shift in expression is terrifying. “But yeah, alright. Contract stands. Shame I’ll be missin’ such a pretty piece o’work though.”

He looks fondly at the work order before stuffing it into his pocket and pointing up the cliff to where the watchpoint is just barely visible far above.

“If that’s it,  _get_. Won’t take more’n a week.”

The Auditor clasps his hands and laughs warmly. “Yes, good. Only the best. Good work. Great work!”

Junkrat’s posture shifts slightly at the compliment, eyes glittering and a half-grin twisting his face to Rosalie’s disappointment. “At least ya know who’s best,” he practically coos as he flicks a finger towards the gate. “Faster you get the hell outta here, faster I can get me shit together and start workin’.”

The old man bows and walks painfully slowly towards his companion, disappearing through the gate without so much as a word of thanks as Rosalie stares you down. You instinctively reach for your visor and pull it back into place, breaking her line of sight.

“Good to see you’re fitting in,” she says quietly before following the Auditor into the tunnels.

You flex your wrist, feeling oddly comforted by the pressure of the launcher strapped to your arm. What is the deal with that woman? Why does she give you the heebie-jeebies?

You’re snapped out of your thoughts by a heavy hand on your shoulder giving you a gentle shove towards the gate where Junkrat is standing with the large box of stock resting between his shoulder and the rock wall. He’s looking at you with a brow cocked, concern written all over his face as his mouth works wordlessly.

No, you realize; Not wordlessly. You just aren’t paying attention.

“-if’n ye want to, that is. Won’t blame ya if you wanna fuck off for a bit. I did knock ‘ya a few times t’day.”

“Sorry,” you say in monotone before taking a breath and exhaling slowly. “What was that?”

“This is at  _least_ a week ’a work.” Junkrat pulls the work order from his pocket and waves it around for emphasis, nearly dropping the box of explosives in the process. “I was sayin’ you can drop by if you feel like. See the innards of me work instead of just the  _fun_ results.” The paper disappears into his shorts again and he shifts the box to both hands as he waits by the gate. He bounces on his heel impatiently as you and Hog walk the final stretch of sand and rocks.

“I’m going to start training properly during the day, if I can. Rev’s got a few ideas that don’t involve explosives,” the AI’s avatar flashes to life as it’s mentioned and you can’t help but roll your eyes. “But between coffee with Angela and working my butt off to get in shape, I’m sure I can squeeze in a visit or two. Just uh…”

You lower your voice as the three of you enter one of many tunnels under The Rock, both to fight the echo and in paranoia of just where Torbjörn’s cameras may be set up.

“Just promise to keep Torb off my back while I’m down there. He almost seems determined I’m some kind of mechanic genius in denial.”

“Pfft, bullshit.” Junkrat cackles, his mirth amplified in the enclosed space. “Tossin’ tools at’cha won’t do shit.”

“Concussion, most like.” Roadhog mumbles beside you. Rat screeches and nearly drops the box of explosives again as his laughter intensifies in response to the joke. Hog sighs and shakes his head, reaching over to pluck the box from the other man’s grasp before disaster strikes.

“Pretty interested in training all of a sudden,” he continues. It’s not a question.

“Well, yeah.” You smile confidently and extend your hands in front of you, closing them into fists and watching how the dim lights barely reflect off of the material. “I have a plan.”

He cocks his head to the side in question and you turn your smile to him, remembering that in the dim light he’ll be able to see through the glass of your helmet.

“I decided I need to make myself useful,” you begin, not bothering to raise your voice as Junkrat’s laughter begins to dissolve into muted giggles. “If I sit on my ass and focus on recovery when I already feel fine, I have no right being here. There’s a cause to fight for and I have nothing to lose but some memories that aren’t even real and a badass suit.”

You reach to run your fingers through your hair but stop as you remember the helmet is in the way, instead fiddling with the collar of your jacket.

“Lena told me some of the volunteers have been allowed to work in the field. I figure maybe if I get good enough I can help out with the easier stuff. I don’t have anything out there, so maybe this can be…” You trail off, arm falling as you stare at the floor.

“It ain’t home. But it’s close as y’get.” Junkrat slaps his flesh hand to your back, a dull thud through the material of your suit. “Don’t fool y’self into thinkin’ it can be. Until that patronus shit gets scrapped-”

“Petras,” Hog interrupts.

“Yeah, that. Look, all I’m sayin’ is don’t get too hooked. Get good, yeah? But do it for you, not this buncha misfits. And when this place goes tits up? Maybe I find the need to hire a  _sneaky_ freelancer for the road. Maybe.”

He pauses his rambling and turns to gauge your response to his thinly-veiled proposition.

Your only response is to raise an eyebrow skeptically as Hog sighs behind you. After a few moments of walking in silence with Junkrat looking over at you with increasingly hopeful eyes, you finally realize he’s probably serious.

“Did you just offer to hire me?  _To steal shit?_ ”

“Nnnnno?” His voice pitches up as he backpedals, his face twisting as he makes an incredibly obvious _help me_ face at Roadhog.

“Not happening.” Whether it’s in response to Rat’s silent plea or to your prospective employment you aren’t sure, but Roadhog picks up the pace and immediately out-distances the two of you. The rattling of the box of explosives fades as he ascends the next stairwell. Rather than rushing to catch up, you slow down and grab Junkrat by the arm in a moment of impulse.

There is a split second where his hand flinches towards his launcher, and it’s almost comforting in a way that he doesn’t just blindly trust you when he’s alone and you’re armed. But instead of getting defensive, he just stops.

You know he can see through the glass. It’s too dim down here. You swallow your nerves.

“Why do you two trust me so much?” You can’t think of an easier way to word it. “It’s been obvious from the get-go that it’s not normal from you. What did she do to make  _you two_  of all people so comfortable around her?” You’re speaking about your past-self in the third person before you can even catch yourself, but your curiosity has taken the lead.

Junkrat squints at you suspiciously and pulls your hand off of his arm by the wrist, but instead of dropping it he pulls you closer, off-balance, and lowers his voice as if someone may be eavesdropping.

“D’ya really wanna know?”

Your stomach flutters suddenly at the close proximity and his suddenly serious expression, stunning you into silence. His eyes narrow further, brows scrunching together and littering his brow with creases as he studies your face through the glass.

Somehow you manage to nod, and his serious persona immediately shatters.

“Welp! Merc said to keep me nose out of it, but since ya asked  _so_ nice-like,” he says in a singsong tone, “I guess I have no choice!” He shifts your captured wrist to his other hand with a giggle and limps towards the stairwell with a determined gait, practically dragging you behind him.

At the top of the stairs you find Hog resting, not having gone far ahead at all. He tilts his head as Rat pulls you past, but the smaller Junker doesn’t even slow down.

“Hey,” he protests, scrambling to his feet.

“She asked,” is Junkrat’s only response, calling behind him without turning or breaking your brisk walk. You twist and look back at Hog, but can’t read anything other than a stiff posture as he lifts the box and shuffles after the two of you.

Rat is uncharacteristically quiet, mumbling under his breath as you navigate first through the corridors under the watchpoint, and then the base itself. Eventually you find yourself led to a vaguely familiar part of the living quarters, taking a moment to realize you’ve stopped in front of the room Roadhog had fetched his keys from before your cake trip.

Why here?

Rat fumbles for a moment, grumbling as he struggles to scan his prosthetic on the security panel. You give a slight tug at the hand he’s still holding your wrist with and he curses, smacking himself upside the forehead after releasing you and scanning the proper one. The door slides open and he slips inside as Roadhog finally catches up, mask hissing as he struggles to regulate his breathing.

It is then that you find yourself abruptly lifted a few feet off the ground by your jacket and carried uncomfortably into the room.

“What the fuck-” is all you can get out before you see the massive collection of traps surrounding the door on the inside. Not only Junkrat’s usual bear-style traps, but also tripwires connected to suspicious metal boxes and what appear to be miniature landmines. “Oh! Oh okay,” you choke as Hog walks through the deathtrap with practiced ease, carrying you to the far end and dropping you clear of the danger along with the box.

The room smells like oil and smoke and sweat. Aside from two beds shoved against the far wall and some bags strewn about, it’s completely empty. No linens, no furniture, and no lighting aside from the glow streaming from the washroom door and a flickering lamp on the floor that has seen better days. Looking up at the ceiling, you see the built-in lights have long ago been shattered.

It is  _very_ obvious the cleaning and maintenance bots don’t enter this room. Ever.

“Sit,” Hog says as he gestures to the beds. You lower yourself onto the mattress, taking in the neglected room. The light pouring from the bathroom flickers with shadow as Rat moves around in there, and you suddenly hear the very distinct sound of someone taking a piss with the door wide open.

The opposite wall is absolutely  _fascinating_  to you suddenly.

“For fuck’s sake,” Roadie grumbles, leaving you to poke his head into the bathroom. You hear lowered voices as you unhook the power from your helmet and pull it off, tugging the hood of your suit back to let your scalp and neck breathe after a day of being cooped up in the suit. The sudden exposure to air ignites the burn at the base of your skull with a whole new wave of pain. You hiss and dig through your pockets for the numbing cream Angela had given you, carefully slathering it on.

The mumbling stops as Junkrat walks back into the room and drops onto the bed beside you, leaning down to reach under it and groping around blindly. Roadhog eases himself onto the other bed, the frame creaking in protest.

“So,” Junkrat says as he searches, “I may owe ya. Quite a bit, turns out.” He pulls a worn pack from under the bed, the Volskaya Industries logo prominently embroidered across its front. “There we go.” He holds the bag out and you take it, the weight surprising you.

You slowly pull the zipper open and are greeted by your warped reflection in cracked blue glass. A helmet identical to yours, albeit one stained and broken. The bag rattles and you reach in further, pulling out a handful of the scale-like nanobots that coat your suit. They stream through your fingers like sand, most of them crushed and warped.

The implication hits you like a sledgehammer to the gut.

It’s here, in this dark room surrounded by the smell of sweat and oil and smoke, with a shattered suit in your lap, that you finally learn what happened in Moscow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick reminder that Moscow will be posted as a separate, one-shot fic in an attempt to keep the reader-character Snare and recall Snare as their own entities. I’ll be linking to it with a temporary filler chapter on AO3 and adding it to the archive masterpost on Tumblr, as well as adding a link to the story to the end of chapter 23 once it’s posted.
> 
> Edit: [Here it is! Please enjoy it!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11568840/chapters/25991694)


	24. Moscow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This temporary chapter contains the link to the Moscow fic, and will be deleted when the next WYS chapter is posted. Please enjoy Moscow!

[Moscow has been posted! ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11568840/chapters/25991694)

This chapter is temporary, being used to deliver a notification to those who are subscribed to the fic by email. When the next chapter of WYS is posted, this notification chapter will be deleted. Thank you all so much, and please enjoy the Moscow ficlet! 

**Author's Note:**

> Your theories, questions, comments, frenzied screaming, kudos, and all that fun stuff are greatly appreciated!
> 
> I can also be reached over on [Tumblr,](http://faranaelit.tumblr.com/) where WYS updates with a little exclusive doodle every chapter, or you can also come and chat with me on my [Discord server](https://discord.gg/BfxnRfe)!
> 
> Agent Snare's current armor reference can be found [here.](http://faranaelit.tumblr.com/post/156340991861/agent-snares-suit-full-suit-reference-for-the)


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